


No Dawn, No Day One-Shots

by quipquipquip



Series: "No Dawn, No Day" Universe [4]
Category: Batgirl (Comic), Batman (Comics)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-04
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:04:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 91,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quipquipquip/pseuds/quipquipquip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of slice-of-life fics related to the good!end of No Dawn, No Day. Originally posted on my tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bulletproof

Damian avoided the question of when he'd fallen for Stephanie. One intrepid interviewer had attempted to get the story out of him, when Stephanie's pregnancy had been the only thing any of them wanted to talk about. The papers had wanted to know all about how they'd met, how long they'd been together, and if the marriage rumors were true. He'd said that yes, the rumors were true, that they'd been together for three years, and that they'd met while she was working for the Wayne Foundation charity...which was close enough, really.

The interviewer had wanted a romantic anecdote, some kind of gem to tuck in there and shine up for all those frumpy housewives that wanted to live vicariously through Steph. Stephanie was a woman who'd lived a hard life and was marrying a billionaire. The curious masses wanted to be charmed by their love story. They imagined Cinderella metaphors and fairy tale endings, urbane courtship and a whirlwind romance.

So there was no way in hell he'd ever share the real story.

When Damian had realized that he was in love with Stephanie, he'd been fifteen. He'd been fifteen, she'd been drunk, and he'd been wearing heels.

Nothing in his life had ever gone to plan.

When Grayson got angry with him, he didn't punish him like a normal person would. This was mostly because Damian wasn't capable of punishing on a normal scale; what would his brother do, ground him? Take away his television privileges? Make him mow the yard? Damian was as far away from being a normal fifteen year old boy as humanly possible, so the usual kinds of punishment were rendered useless. You couldn't just send a boy raised by assassins and ninjas to his room and expect him to stay there.

So, Dick got creative. When Damian stepped out of line, he invented horrible missions that all but killed his pride---missions that, as the Robin to his Batman, he could not refuse.

In his own way, Grayson had ended up a more effective parent than his own father had been. Damian would never tell him that, but he respected his brother's craftiness.

Up to a point.

Sometimes, Dick went too far. This mission was one of those times, he felt. The 'costume' stuffed into his backpack felt like a burning brand; there would be no salvaging his pride after this. Dick had known that, too. Moreover, he'd known that he wouldn't be able to prepare for this mission on his own. He'd probably thought that Damian would admit that and ask for his help, but he _refused._

He hated that he only had one other person that he could ask, and that asking _her_ for help was nearly as bad as asking Grayson. He would get him back for this, one way or another.

Damian could have knocked on the front door, but he didn't know if her mother was home or not. He didn't want to have to explain himself, why he was there, or his relationship to Stephanie. They tried to keep her mother out of the loop as far as her vigilante activities went, and it'd been at least six months since the last time Damian had seen Steph. Team-ups between Batgirl and Batman and Robin were rare. It wasn't that they distrusted her, but that...Dick felt compelled to protect her as best he could.

No one wanted to work with Damian. Not anymore. Not after what had happened to Father. He was constantly under scrutiny, and the swiftest way to ruin your reputation was to befriend him. Dick kept him cloistered. The Commissioner would have him arrested if he didn't.

But, he was almost excited to see Stephanie again. It was an irrational thought, one that surprised him, but it wasn't like he had many friends.

He chose to go straight for her bedroom window. The light was still on, and he knew that it was unlikely that she'd be entertaining any 'guests'. To the best of his knowledge, she hadn't dated since her break-up with Drake. He wouldn't have been surprised if he'd ruined her for relationships forever.

Damian jimmied the window's lock, slipping in silently---and almost walking straight into a baseball bat. He ducked just in time, but had his reflexes been any less sharp he would've been concussed at the very least.

Oh, yes. Stephanie was home.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," Stephanie gasped, a hand over her heart. "I could have brained you with the cluebat, Boy Wonder."

"Unlikely," Damian sniffed, sliding all the way in through the window. "Not with that stance, at least. Do you always greet company with a bat?"

"No, only the little creeps who crawl in my bedroom window in the middle of the night," she said, leaning the bat against her bedside table. It didn't surprise him that she had weapons in easy reach at all times. No one went through his father's training without gaining a healthy sense of paranoia.

"You act as though your ex-boyfriend didn't do the same thing all the time. It's romantic when your lover does it, but not when a friend comes to call. I see."

"A friend usually knocks, D." Stephanie sat down on the edge of her bed, taking a sip from an open beer. He looked at her quizzically.

"Are you... _drunk?"_

"Look, I have a life. One of my coworkers threw a 'Finally Getting Out of Gotham' party, and so I had a couple of drinks. I'm an adult. I can drink if I want to. Don't look at me with your judging eyes, Damian. You don't get to judge me and what I choose to do with my Friday nights." She took another drink of her beer, tucking her legs up under her. "Now, tell me why you're here before my buzz is totally killed and I go for the bat again."

Ah. The moment of truth. Damian looked at _everything_ but her.

"I need your help," he told the ceiling. "With a mission."

"Too tipsy for rooftops," she said with a snort. "And the suit's too difficult to get off when the seal breaks and I have to pee. Sorry."

"I didn't ask for you to come with me," he told the window crossly. "I just need help with the preparation."

"Uh- _huh,"_ she said, sounding amused. "And what kind of prep would that be?"

Damian swallowed hard. He took a deep breath.

"It's an undercover mission. I am supposed to look like a street walker. I thought that you would have tips for making it look believable."

The not-so-thinly-veiled put-down about the way she dressed glanced off ineffectually. Steph started laughing hysterically, holding her stomach and rolling until she actually fell off the bed.

Grayson would _pay_ for this indignity.

"You---wh--- _ha!_ HOOOOOKERRRRRRR!"

Damian's face and neck felt like they were on fire. He couldn't remember ever being this embarrassed in his entire life. It figured that a drunken twenty-something would be privy to his greatest shame.

"Are you finished?" Damian demanded, hoping that his face wasn't too obviously red. "Please, get that out of your system so that we can move on. I am on a schedule."

"Ah--- _hee_ \---you---" Steph was still giggling, wiping tears from her eyes. "---broke in so that I can---s-show you how to dress like a hooker. You have to appreciate how _funny_ this is!"

"I hate you," he told her, and mostly meant it. "Can we just get this over with? And it should go without saying that I will kill you if you choose to tell _anyone_ of this mission."

"Oh, D," she beamed, getting up with a slight sway. "We're going to make you the prettiest girl in town. Show me what you've got."

Damian emptied the rucksack with all the candor of a man approaching the gallows. Out slid a garter belt, thigh-high stockings, heels, and a little red dress. He glared at the assembly hatefully.

"Dick totally picked that out, didn't he?" Stephanie asked, holding up the dress.

"He's a sick man."

"Maybe. But he has good taste in clothes." She gathered up the womanly accouterments and put them in his arms. "Go get dressed in the bathroom. I'll see if I have any makeup that'll go with your skin tone."

"Makeup?" Damian asked, aghast.

"I was serious about making you the prettiest girl of the night. Now march, missy."

He'd brought this on himself, he knew. He shouldn't have taunted Grayson, and he shouldn't have come to her for help. Alfred would have shown him how to apply makeup and hold himself convincingly, had he gathered the courage to ask.

But there was no turning back now.

"You forgot something!" Stephanie sang. When he turned back to look, she was holding an impossibly tiny triangle of black fabric. "Dick must have taken pity on you, because most girls would be wearing a g-string with that dress. This has much more coverage."

Damian took the silky panties, feeling something in him shrivel and die.

"I'm going to kill him," he said leadenly. "And he will deserve it."

Stephanie shooed him to the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He sighed, then began to undress. He'd prepared in the ways he did know how---he'd shaved his legs and face, making sure to leave his skin hairlessly smooth. The dress and underwear were fairly straight-forward, but the bra seemed impossible. It clasped in the back, and even with his superior flexibility he couldn't get it hooked.

"Stephanie," he called after two minutes of sheer frustration. She poked her head in the door like an obscenely cheerful gopher.

"You look fabulous," she said, which made him swear under his breath.

"How do I put this on?" Damian asked, shaking the bra. "This is impossible!"

"Inside voice, D-man. Look. You put it on upside down and turned backwards. Then you hook it, turn it around, slip your arms in, and then arrange the girls accordingly. Since your girls are going to be wadded up handkerchiefs, the last part isn't the same."

It seemed unduly complicated, but he managed to get it on. He pulled the dress on over his head, pulling and rearranging the fabric. It clung, not exactly comfortable, but not too constricting.

Stephanie just wouldn't stop grinning.

"C'mon," she said, after he slipped on the heels and did a test walk back to her room. He only teetered for the first couple of steps. "Sit down and I'll put your face on."

Stephanie had dumped various tubes and compacts over the bedspread. Damian cleared off a space to sit, picking up and inspecting some of the powders and glosses. Why did women need so many kinds?

"None of my foundation or blushes will work on you, since I'm white as a ghost and you've got the whole multiracial glow going for you," she said, sitting across from him. "But you've got a really nice complexion, so you don't need it. We're just going to do mascara, eyeshadow, and lipstick. Think your pride can handle that, Miss Wayne?"

"Call me that again and I'll stab you," he groused sullenly, sniffing a tube of lipstick. Stephanie laughed, pumping a mascara wand.

He looked back up at her when she didn't move for a few seconds.

She was staring at him like she'd never seen him before, like he was some kind of stranger that had stumbled into her room. Her hand was frozen in midair, mascara brush still poised.

"Your eyes are incredible," she breathed, and he was suddenly very _aware_ of how close her face was to his. Heat scuttled from his navel on down. His ears felt scalded by his embarrassment, but it was still _good_. He was frozen, the proverbial deer in headlights, because no woman had ever looked at him like that before.

Oh, he caught the attention of girls. He looked at least four years older than he actually was, so his looks spread a wide net for interested women. He'd been flattered by girls age twelve and up, so he was actually quite familiar with being seen as a fine physical specimen, an ideal, an object, a biological imperative. There was some pride in that, usually. He liked being seen as the superior man that he was.

But this was different. Stephanie wasn't critiquing his prowess as a fighter, or admiring whatever erogenous zone or group of muscles she found attractive. She was looking at him, looking him straight in the eyes, and she wasn't looking away. When he caught the attention of most girls, they glanced demurely away when he looked back. It was a dominance battle, a natural reaction. For centuries, artists had painted women looking anywhere but directly at the viewer, because that aggressive stance was considered unbecoming.

Stephanie knew him, knew what he was capable of, and _still_ didn't react submissively. Her gaze was dissecting, challenging, and it made his mouth go dry.

"Seriously," she said, lightly touching his chin. "You have the most beautiful eyes, D. They're crazy blue, and your lashes are so long. I mean, they're the same blue as your dad's, but they look bluer because your skin's darker. It's. Wow. I never really noticed."

"You also have very clear blue eyes," Damian pointed out, because he itched to say _something._

He didn't know how to put into words how rarified the air between them felt, but he knew that it was significant. _She_ was significant.

It figured, in a way. Who else did he have to go to? Who, if not her?

She laughed. "I'm a white girl with blond hair. Having blue eyes is expected. Yours are more unusual." Steph cleared her throat, brandishing the mascara wand again. "Anyway. Don't blink, or I might accidentally blind you."

"Women go through these rituals willingly?"

"Daily. It's the price of being pretty. The secret is, most girls dress up and wear makeup for themselves, not because they think a guy will like it."

 _"Tt._ Like someone would truly enjoy being caked with powders and pastes."

Steph sighed explosively, and she seemed genuinely annoyed. He faltered a little. He was enjoying the attention, the conversation. He didn't want her to draw back and re-label him as unfit for discussion.

"I don't expect you to get it. Jesus."

"No," Damian said quickly, and then, "Please. Explain this to me. I have to affect the attitude for the cover."

"It's like..." Steph paused, uncapping a tube of velvety rich red lipstick. It was the kind of red so deep that it was almost black. "You know that feeling you got when you put on your Robin costume for the first time and looked at your reflection? How you felt like the best possible you? Like you were someone better, more attractive, than you thought possible, but somehow still yourself? It's like that. You feel bulletproof."

Shamefully, he didn't hate it. How it looked, how it felt, wasn't...terrible. It was ridiculous, of course, but it wasn't bad.

"Bulletproof," he repeated, almost quizzically.

"Bulletproof," she agreed, then scooted closer to him. Damian was extremely aware of the light touch of her knees against his; the nylons made his legs feel more sensitive in interesting ways. He did his best to keep a lid on that, though, because if his body decided to react visibly to her closeness, she would laugh him out of her room. The flimsy panties and tight dress wouldn't hide his shame, much less an erection. "Now, hold still. Me doing your makeup while I'm kiiiiinda drunk is dicey to start with, so no sudden movements. Unless you _want_ Joker lipstick."

"I do not want Joker anything. I will not move, so any aberration will be on you."

She smiled. He watched the corners of her mouth pull as she concentrated, her very blue eyes locked on his face. She applied the lipstick expertly, then had him blot it on a square of tissue. His eyelashes felt heavy, his mouth vaguely sticky. It was strange.

"Aaaaand there we go," Steph announced, fluffing her fingers through his hair to comb it down around his face more. "Damian Wayne, you are now a pretty pretty princess. I have created a glam monster."

He didn't know what to say. He didn't really want the moment to end. It was stupid, he was emasculated, but she was---happy, and she was paying attention to him, and he didn't _dislike_ that.

She quickly stood up, her smile widening.

"Gimme five minutes. I'm coming with you."

"What?"

"I'm not letting you out on the street alone. You're going to scare off every John in town, so you're going to need my help."

"But," Damian said plaintively. "You're intoxicated."

"They call it method acting. I'll be the obnoxious drunk hooker and you'll be the intense silent beauty," she explained, and started rummaging through her closet. She got out a slinky black slip and her Batgirl uniform's boots. Not precisely usual hooker fare, but Steph wasn't the type to have overtly sexualized clothes. "They'll never know what hit 'em."

"I don't think that this is a good idea."

"You never think that my ideas are good," Steph accused as she took off her shirt. She had her back to him, but the skin and scars made his heart twist and squeeze in ways he couldn't name or explain. It was a sudden, blinding epiphany: Stephanie Brown, Fatgirl, was a woman. She was a woman that he respected, in spite of her crass attitutde and low breeding---possibly respected more than any of the female assassins and high-born elite that he'd been raised to see as his equals.

He almost told her to go to the bathroom to change, to have a little _modesty_ , but then she started wrestling off her jeans. And, well, it was her house, so if she wanted to take off her pants in front of him he, as a guest, couldn't rightly complain.

She had the Bat symbol stretched across the seat of her panties. It took surreal effort not to laugh, because he could hear Dick's voice in his head: _Bat ass._

His brother had truly ruined him.

"Because your ideas are routinely horrible," Damian informed her, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He didn't like standing in the heels; he felt like they'd come out from under him at any moment.

She just made an exaggerated _pfffft_ noise, wriggling the slip on over her head.

"Whatever, D. It's been forever since we had an honest-to-God team-up," Stephanie said, sitting down on the bed next to him. She rolled on her fishnet hose with practice and precision. It was sort of fascinating, watching a master of the female arts in action. "And I'm not going to miss out on an opportunity to do that _and_ play Pretty Pretty Princess with you."

"Pretty Pretty Princess," he repeated with dubious darkness.

"It's a board game. Every little girl's favorite game when she's like eight, then every little girl's favorite drinking game when she's like eighteen. I'll challenge you to a round when we get back. This shouldn't take us long, right?"

She teased out her scrunchie, leaving her wavy blond hair a messy, bright halo around her face.

"Right," Damian said, nodding mechanically. "Providing that you don't make any stupid drunken mistakes, Fatgirl."

She smiled beatifically. "Shut up, Boy Blunder. You know that you'll protect me if I do, and then you'll lord it over me for the next ten years."

His stomach turned over. Anyone else would have labeled it butterflies.

"Yes," he agreed quietly, the corners of his mouth itching with a smile he didn't let all the way out. "I'll protect you."


	2. Food Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place between parts two and three of No Dawn, No Day.

Four am was bedtime, usually, and when that hour hit, Steph was only too ready to drop into bed. Working alongside Damian was hard. Even if he hadn't been eight years younger and the epitome of physical perfection, she would have been hard-pressed to keep up with him. She went to bed at four and rarely rolled back out of bed before nine or ten. Damian, though, was up again before dawn. If she hadn't walked in on him sleeping once, sprawled out on his stomach and snoring, she wouldn't have believed that he slept at all.

Once in a great while, she had to deal with the aftereffects of a long night of high-octane crime-bustin'---adrenaline, which made it difficult to sleep, despite her exhaustion, or dreams that snapped her out of restful slumber far sooner than she would've liked.

This was one of those awful sometimes. She fell into bed at 4:45, then jerked out of half-remembered nightmares full of sharp silver edges and needles what felt like five minutes later. She wasn't too far off the mark, either. The numbers on the digital clock on her bedside table cheerfully informed her that it was 6:23. Steph knew that trying to go back to sleep would be a futile exercise in tossing and turning, or a re-entry straight into Nightmare Land.

She groaned, rubbing her face with both hands. She swore she could _feel_ the hideous bags gathering underneath her eyes.

Something to eat might help, she decided. Food helped nine times out of ten. Food was delicious. Food was the reason she wasn't skinny, despite the crazy amount of exercise that she did daily.

Waffles. She'd make waffles. Waffles were the ambassadors of good will in the food world. She'd soak those suckers in syrup and would definitely, definitely feel better. That was the inherent magic of carbohydrates. They graced her heart with happiness and her thighs with inches, and she couldn't really bring herself to care. She liked her body, and she liked food. The only one who gave her any crap about her weight was Damian, and she personally felt that was his way of showing fondness.

Steph hummed the Mission Impossible theme to herself as she tiptoed through the silent, ancient halls of the Wayne Manor. The light was already on in the kitchen, though, and the stove was still warm. Damian was up already, and he'd made himself breakfast.

This was shocking news, because she'd never seen him successfully cook _anything._ But evidence was evidence, and there was a pan in the sink and a half-full kettle on the stove. She just had to see the end result, if only to rib him and watch him choke it down. She wasn't a great cook herself, but D made her look like a master chef by comparison. Nothing smelled burnt, but she had to see it to believe it.

She found him in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor and watching the brightening sky out the large Palladian windows. He had a sheet laid out, a silver tray and several small dishes spread within reach. He was mellow, meditative; she could tell by posture alone that he hadn't heard her come in.

He actually jumped when she said, "I know that Robins are supposed to be early birds, but this is friggin' ridiculous."

Damian seemed utterly confused. He wasn't good with changes to what he saw as the natural order of things, and a Steph that was coherent before nine was unheard of.

"What the hell are you doing awake, Brown?"

"Couldn't sleep," she said dismissively, sitting down next to him without invitation. "What the hell are _you_ doing, Wayne?"

"Eating," he said, carefully smearing an unidentifiable spread on a chunk of bread. "Use your eyes."

"I am. And I saw that you managed to cook something without exploding the kitchen. Also, it looks like you're having a picnic."

"Once again, your ignorance is surpassed only by your cultural insensitivity," Damian said dryly, taking a bite. He chewed and swallowed before continuing, of course. "It wouldn't hurt you to experience the customs of the rest of the world."

"Gosh, you mean there are people who don't eat sugary cereal and watch cartoons every morning? You're blowing my mind here."

He frowned all the deeper. "I was unaware that your sarcasm functioned at this hour."

"Usually, _I'm_ not functioning at this hour," she said with a cheeky grin. Steph scooted closer to him, crossing her legs and stretching the big t-shirt she'd worn to bed over her bare knees. "Care to educate me in why this isn't a six am picnic for one?"

He seemed to actually debate it, like he had something to lose by telling her. He was quiet, evasive, like she'd caught him doing something embarrassing.

Damian didn't share much of himself. He rarely talked about his childhood, about what customs he'd picked up during his strange formative years. She didn't ask, because pressing him for information made him curl in on himself defensively, like a hedgehog protecting his soft belly.

But every once in a while, he offered things freely.

Damian tore off a sizable hunk of the rustic bread and handed it to her. It was fresh, and still a little warm.

"This is how I start nearly all of my days," he murmured, reaching for one of the two pots and an empty cup. "Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee will stunt your growth," she said. "What kind of tea is it?"

"Mint, with sugar. I outstrip my peers in both height and weight, and I've drank coffee since I was a child. Stow the old wives' tales and nonsense, or go away."

"Tea, please," Steph said cheerily. He seemed pleased at her politeness.

"My early childhood wasn't spent in any one place," Damian said as he poured the tea. "Mother had many compounds, and felt that I should experience as much as the world as possible. As you know, the League of Assassins is global, so my masters hailed from many different countries. To fully appreciate what they had to offer, I had to learn their culture and customs. All that I learned was meant to be processed, but never assimilated. My end goal was always here." His very blue eyes flicked back to the window. "Gotham."

Steph sipped her tea, listening to him talk. When he talked about himself, his tone lacked its usual bite of sarcasm. His pauses were longer, his words carefully chosen. Sharing himself was risky. She nodded where it was appropriate, not wanting to derail him or get him to go hedgehog on her. She took a large bite from her bread, using her full mouth as a reason not to interrupt.

"I was instructed to never pick up any habits that would make me stick out. If my father was to accept me as his, I had to be a believable American boy."

She nodded. That made sense, as sad as it was. Bruce'd had a tough enough time stomaching the idea of having a son he'd never written off on, and it would've been even more difficult had he been too different from the dark-haired, blue-eyed boys he'd taken in before.

"But this is how I took my breakfast, no matter the corner of the world I was in. This is how the morning meal is taken in Arabic countries." Damian paused, drinking his coffee. "And that is where I was born."

"Really?" Steph asked, since she couldn't help herself.

"Don't act so surprised," he said, rolling his eyes. "My mixed heritage is no secret. This," he gestured at the sheet on the floor and all the dishes. "Is what was familiar to me, when I was young. Scrambled eggs, Laughing Cow cheese, bread, tuna with olive oil, hareesa, tea, and coffee. It's simple, but. I can make it myself."

"Huh," she said. He was looking at her intently, like he expected some kind of negative reaction. Had he really been taught that showing his heritage was such a _bad_ thing? "You know what passes for culture-food in my upbringing? Government cheese."

Unsurprisingly, Damian Wayne was unfamiliar with the lingo of the welfare system. He scrutinized her over the rim of his coffee cup.

"The what?"

"Government cheese," Steph repeated, her smile turning sheepish. "Super processed, high calorie cheese that the government provides to families on welfare who have dependent children. When I was a kid, grilled cheese sandwiches with government cheese were pretty much my favorite thing. I _could_ be embarrassed about it, since we only got it thanks to Daddy bouncing in and out of jail and Mom's habits, but it's a part of my childhood. The memory's a good one for me."

"I see," Damian said after a lengthy pause. He looked like he was struggling with what else was appropriate to say. Sharing memories and emotions made his twisty little brain overclock, bless him.

"So, if you weren't supposed to have any 'bad' habits," Steph said, refilling her empty teacup. "Why did you keep doing this anyway?"

"Because even in the worst childhood, there are some good memories," Damian said quietly, looking down at his neat, familiar dishes. "This is mine."

"And mine is cheese," Steph agreed, nodding.

 _"Tt,"_ he said with an impressive eye-roll. "I am not surprised in any way."

"Did Alfred know you liked your breakfasts like this?" She asked, moving the subject toward more neutral, non-cheese-related territory.

"Pennyworth and I had an arrangement," he said, and pushed the cheese closer to her. It wasn't a verbal offering, but it was close enough. "He taught me to make eggs, and respected that I did not want my peculiarities discussed with Father."

"Wanting to eat what you're used to eating isn't peculiar," Steph said firmly, unwrapping one of the cheese triangles. "Also, if you eat at six am, why do you eat breakfast with me when I get up, too?"

"I can _always_ eat," Damian said, with feeling. "I don't have to worry about excess calories sticking to me. Unlike _some people."_

Steph chewed her bread and cheese wrathfully. "See if I make you waffles ever again."

"Oh, you will," he said, smirking. "You cannot bear to indulge in food guilt alone, _Fatgirl."_

She punched his arm, and he actually laughed. That was rare for him. Sharing feelings was truly magical.

She finished off her snack, getting back up and stretching. She felt better--- _tired_.

"I'm gonna try sleeping again," Steph said with a yawn. "Thanks for breakfast. I liked it."

"If you would like to share it with me again," he said, looking back out the window. "I will make enough for two."

Stephanie grinned. "Let me think about what two breakfasts would do to my thighs and I'll get back to you," she said.

But before she got back into bed, she set her alarm for six am.


	3. Holy Glowing Genitals, Batman!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place between parts four and five of "No Dawn, No Day" and contains explicit sexual content.

"Okay," she couldn't pull away from him long enough to get a full sentence out. "So," she kissed his neck, the line of his jaw, "We should," he met her mouth with his, sealing off the thought she was trying to voice. "---mmph, we should talk---" Damian sucked a hard kiss into her neck and she shrieked, laughing "---l-logistics!"

He'd known before they'd even started that he'd have to follow her lead. While he had the basic idea and rudimentary knowledge of how a man and a woman joined, it wasn't as robust an education as he would have liked. Grayson had made sure he'd known the basics, sitting him down shortly after his fourteenth birthday and subjecting him to one of the most painful lectures of his life. He hadn't had much interest in sex at that point, and Grayson's 'talk' made him take a personal oath not to get wrapped up in that gross nonsense.

Looking back, he wished that he'd paid closer attention. Dick had had a lot of experience. Possibly _too much._

Damian leaned back a little, giving them both some breathing room.

"Logistics?" He echoed uncertainly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's been a while since I've done this, but I'm not so hard up that I want to make this a bathroom quickie." She laced her fingers together around the back of his neck. "We've got all the time in the world for those. Let's make this nice."

"A bed," he surmised, nodding.

"A bed's a good place to start."

He gave an affirmative grunt, putting his arms around her again and lifting. She'd been sitting on the counter, her knees hugging his sides, so she automatically wrapped her legs around him.

And Damian started walking to his room, Stephanie hanging off him like a koala.

"Are you really going to carry me?" She asked, a laugh in her voice.

"It's faster this way. My legs are longer," he explained, taking the stairs two at a time. He wouldn't admit that he was very reluctant to have her stop touching him. Contact was a new thing for him, and he had to admit that he was hooked.

"Your practicality is amazing, you big jerk. Speaking of being practical...you have condoms, right?"

He stopped mid-stride.

Prophylactics. How could he have forgotten? Of course they would need those. He was astounded that the thought hadn't crossed his mind. He'd convinced himself that this would come _later_ , that they would have established a day and time to consummate their relationship, that he would have fair warning and would be able to plan accordingly.

But, this was happening now, and he would have to improvise as best he could.

"We're not going without," Stephanie said firmly. "Not with my luck and fertility and your genetics. Not going to happen."

"How long do condoms last, unopened?" He asked, brow furrowing as he thought. He had an idea, but it wasn't one that he particularly liked.

"I dunno. Three or four years?"

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and this was an entirely new kind of desperation for him.

"That'll suffice," he said, and turned toward one of the manor bedrooms that he had not entered in many months. He'd had no reason to go in there, no desire to dredge up painful memories, but this was a very good reason.

Dick would approve, he believed, and would have given him a condom himself with an infuriating wink if he'd been around to dispense them.

"If anyone would have a stash of unused prophylactics," Damian explained as he let her slide to her feet. "It'd be him. Grayson had...he had them _everywhere_ , like he was prepared to entertain a 'guest' in any part of the cave at any time. I've found them in his motorcycle gear, in the trophy area, under training mats...it's been like a bizarre, prolonged Easter egg hunt that I've wanted no part in. I've always thrown them away, but it stands to reason he might have some in here, still."

Stephanie grinned. "Yet another stunning bit of sleuthing from the World's Greatest Detective in training."

"Hush, woman. Help me look."

They did so in silence. The room had been left untouched, so it looked uncomfortably like he'd been occupying it just the day before. The fine coating of dust was the only thing that spoke otherwise.

He didn't know where to look, or even where to begin to look, so it was a good thing that Stephanie led the charge. It didn't take long before she gave a triumphant "ha!" and held up a foil-wrapped square.

"Where did you find it?"

"A bookmark in _Pride and Prejudice."_

Oh, Grayson. You ridiculous bastard.

"I wouldn't have thought to look there," he admitted.

"And that's exactly why I _did._ C'mon," she said, her eyes bright. She took his hand and led him out of the room and away from the mood-dampening memories. They would keep.

Damian scooped her up again. She shrieked in delighted surprise.

"Longer legs," he reminded her, pushing his bedroom door open with his hip.

They tumbled into bed, Steph rolling so that she settled in his lap.

Her size surprised him sometimes, when he didn't expect it. The Stephanie Brown of his memories had been taller, much less breakable. He knew, logically, that this was only because he'd grown quite a bit during their time apart, but that didn't shake the perception. In fact, it only made him feel awkwardly protective of her, like she'd been hiding her smallness from him the entire time he'd known her.

He nudged her chin up with his thumb, pausing for a moment before he kissed her.

This was right. He knew it as unshakeable fact. Stephanie was the only woman that had held more than his most passing interest. He wanted this to be good for her, to make her happy. Her outburst regarding Drake had lingered in his thoughts. She'd been upset; hugely upset, almost frantic. It'd seemed like an overreaction in the moment, but upon reflection he thought that he understood.

Stephanie had always been driven by the desire to be wanted. No man in her life had given her that, had made her feel fully accepted and cherished. She'd been afraid that it'd end up being the same with him---that there was some fault in her that made her undesirable. She'd misread his hesitance, so he had to make up for that as best he could.

Words failed him on the subject, so he'd have to let his actions speak instead.

"How have you gotten away with wearing so many clothes for so long?" Steph asked, pulling at his shirt. It got caught on his chin and the awkward angles of his elbows, but she took to wrestling with zeal.

"I could ask you the same," he said, looping his fingers in the waistband of her shorts and tugging. He loved her hipbones, her soft stomach, and the curling pale hair between her legs. How she could see herself as undesirable was beyond him.

She kicked her shorts off the rest of the way, grabbing his sweats by the ankles and yanking them down in one swift movement. She grinned cheekily.

"Better," she announced. "Much better."

She settled herself on his stomach, pinning him on his back as she tore the condom open.

"Oh. Oh, wow. You have to be kidding me." The condom that Steph had carefully removed from its packaging was a milky white, completely nondescript as far as he could tell.

"What?"

"I think he---oh my _God_ , what a _dork_ \---"

 _"What?"_ Damian demanded again, this time more insistently. The mattress shifted as she got up, padding to the light.

"One sec," she said, flipping the switch.

He would have been more flippant and impatient, but seeing her naked and in clear lighting made any sarcastic remarks dry up in his chest. He could wait, if it meant an uninterrupted look at her. She was holding the condom up like a torch, and under any other circumstances he would have thought her ridiculous. But, he was too busy staring at the way her hair fell over her breasts, the beautiful mapwork of scars on her skin.

She abruptly flicked the light back off.

The condom she had pinched between her fingers glowed a garish fluorescent green.

"Holy glowing genitals, Batman."

 _"No,"_ Damian said, and he couldn't have sounded more repulsed if he'd been actively trying. "I will not wear that."

"Then no vag for you."

Now, that wasn't fair.

"You're being unreasonable. You're asking me to put one of Richard Grayson's goddamned _glowing condoms_ on. I won't be able to maintain an erection. It's not possible. You can't ask that of me."

"I'm asking that you help make sure we don't have any bat-babies," she said, a warning in her tone. With her history, he understood, but...

"Until we're prepared," Damian amended, hearing the hesitance in his own voice. She didn't respond immediately, which made him want to swiftly kick himself for voicing that thought aloud, but then the bed dipped with her weight again and she kissed him, lightly and lingeringly.

"Not for a while, no. Maybe someday, but you've got to prove you can raise a cat, first. So just man up and wrap up."

Truth be told, he didn't want to stop the process now that they'd started. The idea of being left painfully hard due to turning his nose up at the protection she insisted on was not one he entertained for long.

"Fine," he said flatly, holding his hand out to take the offensive bit of latex.

But she said "Good choice," and wrapped a warm, small hand around the base of his dick. His stomach muscles jerked reflexively.

Oh. She was going to do it herself. How very like her.

"Pay attention---next time, you're putting it on yourself. Latex goes on the inside, rolls on the outside. It should look like a little hat. A charming little hat for your penis."

He nodded mutely, wishing she would stop talking and just _do it_ , because if she kept talking about giving his penis a glowing tophat he was going to _lose it._

"Leave room at the tip, so the stuff has someplace to go. Then, start rolling it down. It should be snug---you don't want it to be too loose." She finished, sitting back on her heels and surveying her work. His cock curved toward his belly, glowing merrily. "You, uh. You don't have that problem. At all."

If he preened a little at that backhanded praise, he couldn't have been blamed for it. She cleared her throat.

"So now you're all dressed up and ready to go. Any questions before we get this show on the road?"

"No, not especially," he drawled, and tugged her into him again. She mumbled nonsense hums of happiness as he framed her hips with his hands, kissing and sucking a meandering line from her jaw to her breast. There was nothing that he didn't want to touch, didn't want to explore, didn't want to taste.

She knelt, knees spread on either side of his hips, and the hand she'd had resting against his belly trailed lower.

"This does make it easier to find, y'know."

"Shut up," Damian growled, ready to launch into a fresh bickering match, but she found a very, very effective way of shutting _him_ up.

Exhaling raggedly, she guided his cock into her. She took him in inch by wonderful inch, tight and perfect, muscles rolling in a flutter that reduced his biting remark to a throaty _"Ngh."_

She laughed, high and breathless, hands planted on his chest.

"Good?"

 _"Fuck."_

"Good."

And then she moved. Steph rode him, hips thrusting with a rhythm that he tried to keep up with. She showed him how, she showed him where; she controlled everything, her breaths damp and shallow against his neck.

He'd never lacked words before. Even as a very small child, his vocabulary had been extensive; expressing himself had never been a problem. But now, all of his training and all of his words, everything impressive and bold and haughty about him, was shed unexpectedly.

He let her lead, because it was too perfect, too much, more than he had imagined it could be. It wasn't that he hadn't touched himself before---no, he'd dealt with the awkwardness associated with being a growing boy. But it'd been just that---something that he'd _dealt_ with, that he'd gotten rid of, because he hadn't allowed himself to enjoy it. Orgasms had been thoughtless and mechanical.

This was different. The _sounds_ she made. It was overwhelming.

It'd ended up being a little bit too much. He felt it coming, felt the heat of his bunching muscles, and tried frantically to stop---he _knew_ that it was too soon, that she wasn't anywhere near satisfied, that this was an ultimately disappointing performance.

But she arched, and it pulled him over the edge. He half-gasped, half-yelped her name, white, blank pleasure punching the back of his screwed-shut eyelids. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and when he rode the crest back down, shame rose up to meet him.

"Sorry," he said hoarsely. His chest heaved like he'd ran ten miles. No manner of self-control, of willpower, could keep him from softening inside her. "I---that---it wasn't..."

Stephanie leaned forward, her hair spread in a messy nest over him. He reached up and tucked a hank of it behind her ear. It was a silly impulse, but it made her smile.

"You lasted way longer than I thought you would. I actually thought the condom would do it," she said, then kissed him. He could smell her, skin and soap and sweat and the musk of a woman. It wasn't something that he'd ever forget.

"You should _know_ better," he said, able to gather up a little bit of loftiness. It just made her smile widen.

"I should," she agreed, then extricated herself. He shot his nethers a very disappointed look. Flaccid, he was still glowing balefully. He sighed and carefully removed the condom, knotting it and throwing it toward the wastebasket. Even in the dark, his aim was true. "Most guys barely last at all, so don't beat yourself up. There's plenty of time to get used to it and build up that staying power. I know how you feel about training, so..."

"Yes," Damian said, with all the determination of a man who had mastered every form of martial art he'd been introduced to. "I will be _excellent."_

Stephanie laughed, curling up next to him. Their skin stuck together slightly with sweat wherever they met. She tucked her head against his shoulder, sighing deeply.

She _sounded_ content, but...

"I...I wanted to," he began haltingly. It sounded so damnably childish, but he felt the need to say it---to tell her. "I wanted to see you..."

Stephanie propped herself up on her elbows. "What?"

"I want to know how to please you," he said quietly.

"D," she said, shaking her head. "I'm fine. Seriously, that was more than enough of a lesson for one day. I don't need to---"

"No," he interrupted. It sounded more like a command than a request, now. "I want you to show me how."

She processed that silently for a few seconds, then asked, "Really?"

Steph sounded like the idea of watching her touch herself should have repulsed him. He didn't really care. He knew what he wanted, and he knew that he learned best from seeing something performed in front of him.

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

"Oh," she said, and then _"Oh,"_ again. He could feel her take a deep breath. "Okay. But the lights are staying off, you little perv."

"That's acceptable."

"Damn right it is," she muttered, and took another cleansing breath. He could see her well enough in the half-light of the room, the blinds painting her pale skin with even stripes. She was absolutely luminous, each curve described in chiaroscuro.

She closed her eyes, her fingers curling up into the cleft of her sex. He watched the way she stroked---angle, speed, variation, all the things that he would have memorized had he been learning some new kata.

He found it odd---worrisome---that she was more embarrassed by this than she'd been about everything else. She'd been bold, commanding, when it came to his needs and his pleasure. But she'd hesitated to get herself off, like that was somehow less important. More than that, she treated this act like it was dirtier than the rest, even though it was just for _her._

He didn't like that.

But she forgot that he was there, that he was watching, because she relaxed. Her knees bent, hips rolling as she rode her own fingers, voice high and raw and gasping. It was a slow thing that built, and when she finally came it was---he'd never seen anything like it. She arched clear off the bed, muscles hard and quivering, wound so tightly it looked painful. Her moan---explosive, desperate, almost a sob---made his half-hard cock twitch with interest.

Her breath hissed through her teeth as she came down. It slowed, and evened, as she went lax and loose again.

"That was magnificent," Damian said reverently. She gave a breathless laugh, hitting his arm.

"Come on."

"No," he said, taking her hand. He licked her fingers. "It was."

That robbed her of any smart remarks, which was just as well. He'd said what he'd wanted to say, and she knew that he meant it.

Overall, it went remarkably well for something so new, so different.

Practice would make it perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place between parts four and five of "No Dawn, No Day."

_Casual_ was not Damian's home-life standard, so the way Steph lounged around the manor without a brasserie was alien to him. Bras were for public, not for home, she'd told him, and he'd added that to his list of _female-related frivolity that makes no sense whatsoever._ They were baffling, horrifying, fascinating creatures, and his only comfort lay in the fact that Stephanie wasn't the only one.

 _All_ of them were confusing.

"Here's the mail, it never fails---"

He heard Stephanie coming and knew to brace himself. Damian moved his cup of tea further away from his keyboard, just in case.

"---it makes me want to wag my tail---"

"Do you have to do this _every_ time that we get---"

"When it comes I want to wail, _maaaaaaiiiiilllll!"_

Yes, she did have to. It was a part of their ritual. She picked up the mail from the Wayne Industries office so that he didn't have to show his face, but tortured him with a childish ditty before she gave it to him. He'd learned to deal with it.

"You got a card," she said, sitting down in the chair next to him. "You have friends?"

 _"Hush,_ woman."

But it was a surprise to him, too. It was addressed to 'Mr. Wayne', and there was no return address. He pulled his knife out of his boot, slitting open the envelope.

"Most people have paperweights for that. Not combat knives."

 _"Hush,_ woman."

"What is it? Who's it from?"

"It's...a Christmas card?" Damian said, hearing the confusion in his own voice. He opened the envelope. The front of the card had a black cat wearing a Santa hat, _Meowy X-Mas & A Catty New Year_ written around it in elegant cursive. Opening it, he found a simple message: _Alfred, best wishes in the new year. ♥ S. Kyle._

He stared at the card dumbly.

"I can't believe someone sent you a Christmas card," Stephanie said, leaning to read over his shoulder.

"They didn't. This card is for Alfred. Catwoman sent _my cat_ a Christmas card."

She burst out laughing.

"How did she know? How could she have _possibly_ known?" Damian demanded, turning the card over in his hands. He opened it wide and shook it like answers would come out if he used sufficient force.

"Gotham's Finest Cat Lady has her ways, D. You can only aspire to be as crazy and feline oriented as her someday."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place between parts four and five of "No Dawn, No Day."

"There's no way that this is real," Steph said, for the fourteenth time. "No. Way."

Damian didn't spare her the dignity of a response, long having run out of _tts_ to give. He didn't have a single _tt_ left, and she was working on his last nerve as well. He hunched in his computer chair, scanning a portion of the material that they'd appropriated from a hood's bizarre and well-stocked laboratory.

"The tests have been inconclusive as of yet. Furthermore, the alien has not shown signs of power loss or illness, so we cannot destroy it or rule it out as dangerous. Also? Please, shut up."

She was lucky that he'd asked nicely, he thought. He didn't deserve being bodily pulled out of his chair by his cape. Kara had fisted both hands in his uniform and was using her superstrength to manhandle him as effortlessly as he did his cat. It was an uncomfortable emasculation.

 _"Be nice to her,"_ Kara growled, her eyes glowing dangerously.

 _"I am,"_ he growled back.

"He is!" Stephanie agreed, tugging on his leg in an effort to get Supergirl to drop him. "That is as lovey-dovey as he gets! Please, don't break his stupid face. I kind of like it."

"You heard her," Damian wheezed. She was cutting off his ability to draw in a deep breath. And this was why Damian wanted to give up the cape and wear a trenchcoat instead, but the stupid woman would have nothing of it. "She likes my face."

Something flitted across the girl's features---it was a complicated emotion, there and gone before he could categorize it, as elusive as a whiff of perfume. It lingered as an impression, though: notes of jealousy, hurt, and embarrassment. Hmm.

She dropped him, but Damian landed on his feet gracefully. He cleared his throat, rearranging his cape.

"We ought to put the alien in containment until we've determined what kind of affect the pink kryptonite has had on her."

"Absolutely not," Steph said, hands on her hips. He knew it wasn't an argument that he would win, but he still felt compelled to fight. That was the way their relationship worked.

"I'm sorry," Kara said, and she sounded it. She drifted down, head bowed miserably as soon as her heels touched concrete again. "I don't know what's happening to me. I just...I feel..."

Steph laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, smile. "It's okay, Supes. You can talk it out. I'm all ears."

Kara's face bloomed with color. She sucked in her lower lip with a faint, embarrassed giggle.

"You're the best, Steph. I'm so glad that I have a friend like you."

"Hey, don't mention it," she said, and very slightly leaned into her hand when Steph brushed her cheek. She was using the pretense of tucking her hair behind her ear for her---a move Damian himself had called upon, he mused. Clever girl.

"No, I mean it!" Kara said, and took her hand.

Damian took a seat. It seemed like the best vantage point to watch this all unfold.

"I know you do," Steph laughed. "I mean it, too. You were my first real friend with superpowers, but you've always treated me like I'm on your level. That means a lot to me."

"But you are," the alien said, still twining her fingers with Stephanie's. Perfect pink glittery nails framed a pattern with her chipped, purple-painted ones. "You're so strong. A-and pretty. You're really, really pretty and Damian is a jerk for not telling you that every minute of every day."

Well, that wasn't a fair assessment at all. That kind of repetition would be a complete waste of his time.

"He's..." _In the room, you bimbos,_ he wanted to say, but didn't. He felt a little bit like a zoologist in the field, fascinated by a mating ritual he neither recognized nor understood. Kara's line of sight was locked on Stephanie's mouth with such intensity, he feared she would spontaneously use her heat vision.

"If you're going to kiss her, alien, you should just do it already," he sighed, leaning back in his chair. "This sexual tension is making me nauseous."

He wasn't positive whether or not she used her superspeed, but she had her arms around Stephanie and was kissing her hungrily not a moment after the words _do it_ left his mouth.

Interestingly, Stephanie kissed her back.

The thought that she might be attracted to both sexes had not occurred to him. Her pattern had only included heterosexual males---at least to the best of his knowledge.

Very, very interesting.

Damian folded his arms over his chest and fought to keep a neutral expression. A part of him wondered if he should break them up and point out that they were being ridiculous, but he'd already determined the stone to be---as Stephanie had claimed in the first place--- _completely fake._ Her feelings were her own, prompted by courage and the placebo effect.

Kara broke the kiss. She glanced at Damian through the heavy fringe of her lashes, then back at Steph. Stephanie, for her part, seemed dazzled. She had a stupid grin on her face and her lips were a hot red from the force of Kara's kiss.

"Him, too?"

"C'mon, D, time to make you ten percent manlier," Stephanie smiled, waving him over. "This'll be a lot less weird if you join in instead of staring like the bat-creep you are deep down."

He pondered his options. Ten percent was a large figure. Hmm.

Damian joined the girls, but only in the interest of furthering science.


	6. Girls' Night In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place between parts four and five of "No Dawn, No Day."

Milagro was considerably younger than Steph, so she slipped into the older-sister role without even realizing she was doing it. She didn't have any siblings and Milagro didn't have any sisters, but the two had bonded as pseudo-siblings regardless. So, though Damian disliked visitors at the Wayne estate when he wasn't around, she was always finding reasons to drop by for sisterly girl time.

An impromptu Batman/Blue Beetle team-up was a prime opportunity for Steph and Milagro to take the night off and have a little 'them' time. The Green Lantern brought over cheesy B-films and cheesier pizza, and the two parked themselves in front of the huge television to eat, talk, paint their nails, and critique the consistency of the fake movie blood. Stephanie and Milagro had highly developed tastes for really, really bad movies.

"And it's like," the Lantern said, gesturing with a limp slice of pizza. "I don't get why hoods get so worked up when they realize I'm a girl. I guess that I kind of forget that gender is this _thing_ on Earth, y'know? Out in space, it's less 'I can't believe you hit me, you're a girl' and more 'I can't believe you hit me, I'm a nine-headed slime god of a lenticular galaxy and you are a mere biped'."

Steph gave a very unladylike snort.

"Tell me about it. Around here, you never get to forget 'what' you are. If I could do it all over, I would have cut my hair and bound my chest when I was Robin, just so people would give me the friggin' time of day." She contemplated her own words for a moment, taking another bite of pizza. "Actually, you know what? No. If I could do it again, I would do it exactly the same. Screw 'em. I was as good of a Robin as any of them---having ovaries doesn't mean you can't also have a thirst for justice."

"Damn skippy," Milagro agreed, and held out her hand for a high-five. Steph slapped her one, greasy fingers and all.

"One of these days, they'll get it. I know that they will," she went on, unscrewing the cap of her bottle of soda. "If not in our generation, then the next. There's more and more of us, and they can just shut up and deal with it."

"Mm-hmm. If I've gotta punch a zillion criminals for them to get that my punches do just as much damage as a dude's, then so be it. Line 'em up and I'll knock 'em down. I am Milagro Reyes, _hear me roar."_

Steph laughed, slinging an arm around her shoulders and squeezing.

Things were changing---hell, things had changed even in the time since Steph had started hanging out in dark alleys with the express purpose of punching crime in the teeth. It might have been the fact that the old crew was either retiring or had passed on, or it might've been some awesome group self-realization that was slowly dawning on the heroing community, but times were a-changin'.

"It's nice," Stephanie said, relishing the moment for what it was. "It's nice to feel like we're not alone, or that we have to be just like the boys to be anywhere good as them."

"That crap should be common sense, but I know what you mean," Milagro nodded. "But sometimes, I kinda wish we were alone. Nobody's a bigger gossip than someone in a cape."

"Everyone knows everyone else's business because they either are a super detective, or have super hearing, or have super intellect, or can see the future. Everyone knows who everyone else is sleeping with, and five degrees of separation don't exist. Unless you've only had one partner, there's like a ninety percent chance that you've slept with Dick Grayson by proxy."

Milagro's nose wrinkled. "Ick."

"Don't knock that ass. It's gone around, but that doesn't make it any less fine. I mean---"

There was a deafening bang as the door was thrown open with enough force to rattle it on its hinges. Batman stormed in, looking---not totally unironically---like a bat out of hell.

"How was the team-up?" Steph asked him sweetly.

 _"Never again,"_ Damian snarled, shoulders squared and cape whipping behind him as he all but stomped through the cave. The Blue Beetle hung in the doorway, looking very stressed and anxious and apologetic to the world at large.

"What crawled up his batbutt and died?" Milagro asked, blinking at her brother. Jaime rubbed the back of his neck.

"Khaji-Da. I mean---not really, but kind of---ish? Kindaish. Oh, God, he's going to stab me."

"Shh, shh," Steph said gently, afraid that the poor Beetle would bolt if she didn't calm him down. "He tells everyone that he's going to stab them. It's how he says hello."

"But no---really---Khaji-Da noticed his suit improvements and was, uh, impressed, and..." Jaime gesticulated helplessly. "...and wanted to inspect them a little, and he kind of burst his personal bubble _a little_ , and...and we should really go. Like, now. Now as in immediately."

"NO MORE TEAM-UPS!" Damian howled from down the hall. "EVER! TAKE YOUR DAMNABLE LITTERMATE AND LEAVE!"

Steph just _loved_ when he had team-ups. It provided teasing fodder for weeks, without fail.

"Tell him sorry, please," Jaime begged, hands on his sister's shoulders to bodily steer her toward the door. "And that the batsuit molestation was all alien, not me. I swear. He's a really ni---well, I mean, he's not _nice_ , but he's---he's very---I'm just not like that. Okay?"

"All's forgiven, Blue Bro. I'll go soothe the Batbeast's wounded pride."

Team-ups were the best.


	7. Saving Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place between parts four and five of "No Dawn, No Day."

"Nngh," Stephanie said, just a nasally nothing-noise to encapsulate how sweaty, tired, and achy she was. She looked like a child that needed to be put down for a nap, not an adult woman. She let him guide her toward the bathroom with a hand between her shoulderblades, though she dragged her feet the whole way.

"One of these days, you'll learn how to tell me when I'm pushing you too hard," Damian said, annoyed. The vapid woman could barely move, and the _real_ bruises and pains hadn't even begun to rise to the surface.

"No such thing," she mumbled indolently. "I can kick your ass anywhere, anyplace, anytime." Steph huffed her sweaty bangs out of her eyes. "D, take my shirt off. I can't move my arms. Do I still have arms? Tell me I still have arms."

"You're impossible," he sighed. "And yes, you have your arms. Am I going to have to do everything for you?"

Stephanie instantly brightened.

"Yes. Yes, you have to do everything for me."

He didn't understand what she meant until she took her---completely working---hands and guided them under the hem of her shirt.

Oh.

Well.

He could do that.

Damian pulled her shirt off over her head, careful not to catch her elbows or hair. She hummed, pleased. Her sports bra was more difficult, since it didn't clasp and it wasn't meant to be easily removed. That took a bit of teamwork, but it was well worth it. He shucked off his shirt and kicked off his shorts with more undignified haste than he might have, usually, but this type of offer didn't come up every day. He guided her to the bathroom, a hand wrapped loosely around her wrist, and turned on the shower.

Steph took her ponytail out herself, shaking out her damp, wavy hair. It was what she'd deem a mess, but what he saw as an attractive rumple. When it was free and unkempt, there was no reason not to run it through his fingers, working them through tangles with gentle---and sometimes a little _less_ than gentle---tugs.

"I like where this is headed," she said, leaning past the shower curtain to check the temperature of the water. Damian knelt, hooking his fingers in her underwear and working them down, mapping his progress with dry, deliberate kisses on the curve of her hip, the inside of her thigh, and the dimple of her knee. She dragged her fingers through his short hair, her nails scraping a tingling path across his scalp.

"Okay," she said, a grin in her voice. "You know that you totally look like the cat when he's getting scritched, right?"

"Dammit," Damian grouched. "You killed it. You killed the mood. You, Stephanie Brown, killed the mood. Father's no-kill rule? Broken. _You killed the mood."_

"Shut up," she laughed, and made him shut up before he even had to taunt her to.


	8. Feeling Needed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after the third part of "You Left Me in The Dark".

"Are you reading a _comic book?_ " Steph demanded, hands on her hips. Damian peered at her over the edge.

"I don't see how it's any of your business what I do and don't read," Damian informed her, turning a page. He was still in the sweats and shirt that he'd slept in, but that was his new norm. When you didn't have the energy to be awake for more than six hours at a time, getting dressed was sort of pointless.

"I've been your partner for three years and this is the first time I've ever seen you pick up any book that has the temerity to have _pictures_ in it," she pointed out. "Are you ashamed? Is that why you've been hiding your dirty comic reading habits from me?"

"I simply enjoy them more on my own," he said stiffly, brows bunched with a frown she only saw the top half of. "And I do not get in the mood to read them often."

Steph flopped down on the couch next to him, leaning to read over his shoulder. He leaned the other way with a deepening frown. Clearly, he wanted to be left alone.

Well, too bad for him.

"Ssssso, what mood is the comic book reading mood? All I'm picking up on is 'grumpy' and 'in need of ten naps'."

That made his frown hit scowl territory. It was always an interesting evolution. Sometimes, Steph riled him up just to watch the ridiculous faces he made. He kept up a good pokerface in mixed company, but when it was just the two of them he emoted much more visibly. She could write a dictionary on his frowns alone.

"Comic book reading is synonymous with _ennui_ and _injury_ for me," Damian mumbled, angling the dog-eared and much-loved cover of the comic book so that she could see it. "Grayson would take my real books and replace them with these pulp rags whenever I was healing. He claimed that too much stress on the brain hampered the recovery process. Said that it was _tradition."_

The cover had a photograph of a smiling man in a black mask, hat, and cape. He peeked out from behind a red curtain, sword in hand. _Zorro._

She very suddenly understood why he was moody. That comic book hadn't been Dick's---not originally. Following the chain of memories up to its anchor point made her heart feel bruised.

"Dick would think that comics are therapeutic," she heard herself say, instead of the questions that were bubbling up. _Are you reading that because you're sick and it reminds you of Dick? Or your father? Or because it's been so long since you've gotten sick, you don't know what else to do with yourself?_

Damian bunched into his corner of the couch like a sulky cat. She _vividly_ remembered him doing the same thing as a little boy. It'd been hilarious back then---the prince of cats indeed---but now that he was over six feet tall it was absolutely priceless. Had they not been in a very delicate place in their relationship, she would have laughed at him.

"D," she said, utterly serious. "I promise I'm a carrier of only non-lethal cooties."

"I realize that you have no sex-specific parasites," he said, hunching down and not resurfacing over the top of his comic. "I'm generously giving you room. Don't expect me to do it again."

"Uh-huh," Steph smirked, and stretched out her legs. She wiggled her toes against Damian's calf. His too-blue eyes very slowly rose above the book again.

"I'm reading," he growled. "Stop touching me."

"I'm not touching you," she sang, curling her toes. She walked them up to his knee.

"Yes, you are. You're touching my leg. Stop that."

"And now you're infected with cooties," Steph told him, wiggling her toes in his face. "It's terminal. I'm very sorry, but there is no cure. You will have my cooties forever."

Damian sighed. Loudly. "What _point_ are you trying to make here?"

"I remember a time not so long ago where a certain bat would have run five miles to touch me," she said, and he looked away with what she would have sworn was shame hastily spackled-over with annoyance.

 _"Tt."_ He closed the comic, setting it on his stomach, and still didn't look at her.

"I think it's so tragic that only your soul or your sex drive can fit in your body," Steph continued, actively seeking buttons to push. She'd been feeling avoided for two weeks, and she had had about enough. She'd moved back into the manor, but he stayed in his room and she stayed in hers. She kept waiting for him to ask if-and-when they were going to share a bed again, but her patience had worn out. "I mean, I'm glad that you've got your soul back, _buuuut..."_

"You are so fucking ridiculous. My libido has been lower than usual because my---" he gestured shortly, hands cutting the air. "--- _everything_ has been lower than usual. I've never slept this much in my life. My productivity has bottomed out, I've halved my patrol hours, and I'm still exhausted. My lack of interest has not been...a true lack of interest."

"Uh-huh," Steph said again, worming her way closer to him. He'd run out of empty couch space to retreat to. "You're tired because your body is reacting to your soul being back like it'd deal with an organ transplant. You're recovering from major shit, but it's nothing that the power of science and medicine can speed up. As the undisputed expert in all things Damian Wayne, I believe that you're depressed."

"Don't be an idiot," he said crossly. "I'm not depressed."

"Sure you aren't. You're hiding from me, sleeping alone, losing interest in the things that make you happy, and constantly beating yourself up because you're feeling chipper and confident."

His mouth twisted like he'd bit into something sour, but he didn't say anything. He couldn't refute that, because it was true.

"And I have this theory about it," she said, brushing his leg with her toes again. "I think that you're having trouble being a floppy, tired, soul-ified bastard with me around. Do you really think that it bothers me that you're not Mr. Invincible Alpha Male anymore?"

"I'm weak," he said quietly---so quietly that she almost didn't hear him. "I will never be that strong again. Moreover, I...I know that I haven't been a good partner to you. Not for some time."

Damian tucked his chin, folding his hands on his stomach. He looked much younger than usual, fragile and unsure. Theirs was the first romantic relationship he'd ever had, so he'd never had a breakup, especially one as violent as theirs had been. He had no idea what to do or what to think or how to mend things. Every broken relationship in his life had been irreparable; the people who had left him had either died---Bruce and Alfred---left---Dick, Cass, and Tim---or never forgiven him--- _Talia_.

He didn't know how to ask if they were okay. He didn't know how to negotiate an emotional cease-fire. He didn't know where to even begin. He knew that he'd screwed up, but he was lost as to how to make things right again. In typical Dark Knight fashion, instead of presenting his fears and admitting that he needed direction, he'd drawn away and stuffed all of his feelings into a knotty, untouchable wad that just festered.

Damian was lonely and sick and reading comic books because they reminded him of better times that he thought were gone. He was a porcupine that dripped melancholy. This pitiful, emotionally retarded boy that she loved sometimes proved that he was a lot more than just the Batman.

"Yeah, well, good news," Steph said, more or less crawling over him. Personal space was out of the question until he got it through his head that she was slapping his ass with an olive branch. "You can learn to be a better partner. Being normal isn't the end of the world. You still have those crazy awesome genetics going for you. Seriously, I'm a fan of your crazy awesome genetics."

She made herself comfortable on top of him, stomach to stomach with her legs tangled up with his longer ones. Damian looked at her carefully through his lashes, hesitant. After a moment's thought, he set the comic book aside and arched up slightly to kiss her. They were forever tactile people, so that purposeful touch said a lot more than anything he could have put into words. It was an apology and a promise, and she was sure that he'd follow her to her room that night and stand there awkwardly until she invited him in with her. That was something to look forward to.

"Wanna watch a movie?"

They both had coping mechanism when it came to feeling blue.

He rolled his eyes, but then carefully tucked her hair behind her ear. It was a cautious movement, but a tender one. Once again, Stephanie had gotten her way. Most of the time, her way was better than the Bats' way.

"What will be talking this time?" He asked as Steph reached over him for the remote control. She wasn't interested in getting up anytime soon. They were in a brief window where she could pretend that everything would be okay and go back to the way it'd been---the seven years since he'd had a soul, the handful of weeks before her belly started getting suspiciously round. She couldn't guess where the future would take them, but she could believe that if they got their footing again, it'd be good places.

"Household appliances," she said, flipping through On Demand. For people who didn't watch much television, they had a ton of channels. "We're going to watch the Brave Little Toaster."

"Heroic, talking household appliances," Damian snorted disdainfully, settling deeper into the couch. "Glorious."

He was asleep before the grand appliance adventure even began. She was positive that he'd ignored the opening plot in favor of making out with her, but she couldn't complain about that too much. The playful kissing and rolling around had tuckered him out, though---Mr. Endurance had a lot to catch up on.

Damian ended up with his head in her lap, draped half-on and half-off the couch, snoring softly. Even ninjas wouldn't have woken him. She got that he was self-conscious about being a weak partner, but he didn't have any reason to be. He'd taken care of her before, and that'd been much more difficult than tucking her into bed and reminding her to eat. Getting to look after him was surprisingly nice. Besides, it gave her a reason to avoid patrolling herself.

Steph absentmindedly carded her fingers through his hair as he slept. She'd worried about coming back, about opening herself up to whole new kinds of hurt, but in that moment she had no regrets whatsoever. He'd been the one hellbent on securing a way to keep them together forever, so she had to believe that he was in it for the long run. Their months apart had been navel-gazing time for her, because she'd had to decide if 'forever, or as close to forever as we can get' was something that she wanted, or something that terrified her.

It'd been an easier decision than she'd anticipated. Steph loved him, from his bundle of bat-issues to the way he only slept deeply when she was with him. The trust he put in her was humbling. He needed her, and she kind of liked being needed.

For once, there was no question of whether or not Batman wanted her around.


	9. congrats on all the bday sex ;)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "Feeling Needed".

Even after the broken deal, after Damian asked her to come back, after things had been forgiven, things didn't spring right back into being how they'd been before. There'd been an awkwardness between them now, a lingering question of how much was going to be okay and how quickly they'd go back to it. The fight that had prompted Steph to leave had been a hairy one. They'd both been at fault, and they'd both been right, and they'd both been wrong, and it was one of those things that was better left unmentioned.

But, the effects of the fight lingered. Damian was hesitant to touch her, and when he did it was with the care and respect of an apology. She could tell that he hadn't stopped beating himself up since he'd woken up alone, and while he deserved a little self-flagellation, she wouldn't let him stew in it forever. She definitely would have jumped right back in feet-first if their fight hadn't had a lingering, more _lasting _side-effect.__

 _She was pregnant. Increasingly pregnant. She hadn't told him before the showdown, because he would have undoubtedly benched her. And now that they were together again, she had no reason _not_ to tell him. She'd have to, sooner or later. But it was goddamned difficult, because she was scared._

Being apart had been hell on her. The thought of another separation---especially over _this_ \---was enough to keep her awake at night. The sticky August heat and her isn't-this-supposed-to-only-be-in-the-morning sickness didn't help her stress level, either.

Thankfully, Damian was still recuperating. His energy was low, and he spent more time asleep than he did awake. It gave her time to be near him without pressure, time to think and to heal in her own way. Cassandra and Jason patrolled, and Batman and Batwoman stayed in bed and tried to put themselves back together.

Damian had never been weak before. He'd been a near-perfect machine, powered by the Devil and the Bat in equal parts. Now, it had all caught up to him. It was like being anemic, but on a soul-deep level. Steph was happy enough to stay with him, either resting herself or reading or keeping tabs of everyone in the field via laptop.

But he was getting better, getting stronger, daily. And she wasn't getting any less pregnant.

One afternoon in August, she woke up to a Damian-shaped absence next to her in bed. Anxiety nagged at her, though common sense said he hadn't wandered far. Steph manhandled her hair back into a ponytail, plucking at the front of her baggy shirt in order to get it to bunch better over the fairly noticeable curve of her stomach. The last time he'd seen her, _Jason_ had asked when she was going to tell the littlest bat that she was knocked up. Of course, Jason was a street kid; he had more experience with the ways women hid their delicate condition if it was an inopportune condition as well. That knowledge was one of the few forms of education that Damian lacked.

Alfred led her to the kitchen, mostly to tell on Damian. He'd fixed himself a bowl of cereal before he'd fed the cat, and Alfred was protesting this unfair treatment. Damian was half-aware and bleary, in nothing but his pajama pants and sporting a serious case of bed head.

Even as an adult man, he could look seriously kittenish in the right light. The exact size and shape of how much she'd missed him and all the normal, boring moments like this one was dizzying and vast.

"I'm twenty-one," he said, sounding vaguely surprised. "Today is my twenty-first birthday, and I nearly slept through it."

Oh, man. Was it really the twentieth already? It was difficult to remember the day of the week when you slept through days at a time.

"I'm surprised that you didn't. _I_ kind of lost track of what day it was, too."

Damian continued to eat his cereal, though it someone could chew disdainfully, he was doing just that.

"Jason did not forget," he sighed, and slid his cell phone across the counter to her.

 _congrats on all the bday sex ;)_ , said the text message on the screen.

That scheming bastard. She would have to have a talk with him. _Such_ a talk.

"I can't believe I didn't realize what day it is," Steph said, honestly aggrieved. What kind of girlfriend was she? She'd never forgotten before. And twenty-one was kind of a big deal. It was the last 'big deal' age until thirty.

"No matter," he said dismissively, refilling his cereal bowl. "I've never been one to celebrate. Furthermore, there isn't anything I want that I can't afford or purchase for myself, so gifts are unnecessary."

Color seeped into her cheeks. That was as good of a set-up as she could ask for.

"Well. That's the funny thing. I _do_ have a surprise for you."

That got Damian's attention. Surprises usually did. Whether or not he'd admit it, the ten year old boy who'd loved the moonbounce was still alive and well inside him.

"Mm?" He asked politely, spoon still in his mouth.

"Yeah," she said, touching her stomach without realizing that she was doing it. "You know how I've always been a hardass about doubling up on protection? I take the pill, you wear a condom, go team bat contraceptives?"

He nodded dumbly. Damian didn't have to be the world's greatest detective to see where she was headed with this one.

"When we fight, we get really stupid," Steph continued, urging him to get it before she had to spell it out. "So stupid, we yell and forget to use buddy system protocols. And I'm really fertile, and I'm pretty sure your little swimmers could pierce a diamond, so..."

The spoon fell out of Damian's mouth. He didn't say anything.

Great. Not one nice word to say about it. Yes, forcing him into fatherhood at twenty-one kind of sucked, but she wasn't going through giving up another baby.

"Should I go pack my stuff and start getting thee to a nunnery, or what? You're not giving me a lot to go off of here, D."

He visibly floundered. "Wh---pack? Leave? Are you---you must be--- _no_ , no, I'm---"

For one of the first times in all the years she'd known him, Damian was at a complete loss for words. He mechanically set down his bowl of cereal, then wrapped her in a hug that lifted her off the ground. Steph put her arms around his neck and exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"We're okay?" She asked, just to make sure. The way he wasn't at all interested in letting her go was a strong indication that they were very okay, though.

"You made a liar of me. I said I didn't want anything, and you had to go and make that a lie," he said, still holding on fiercely.

The ever-present sniffles itched at her, but she tried to hold them at bay. Hormones were stupid and acting like a sodden, emotional woman was stupid and how relieved she was that they were _okay_ was also stupid.

But god, it was good.

"So yeah," she said, trying to sound unaffected, though her voice wobbled. "Due in January. Happy birthday."

The cell phone buzzed and skittered across the counter. Damian picked it up with his free hand, not letting her wander too far from him. He frowned as he read the new text.

"Jason is offering to buy me a drink for my birthday. He also wants to know if you told me. _He knew?_ How did he find out before I did?"

She was going to have _such_ a talk with him.

"Personally, I'd be more worried about the whole Jason-wanting-to-get-you-drunk part of that text," Steph said with a smirk she couldn't quite smother. Damian rolled his eyes.

"I could easily drink Todd under the table."

Needless to say, that ended horribly.


	10. ALL the B-Day Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place immediately after "congrats on all the bday sex ;)" and contains explicit sexual content.

"I'm still trying to figure out what to do with you," Jason murmured, chin in hand and gaze thoughtful. Damian's fingers felt like they were buzzing a little, and the topography of the inside of his mouth was very interesting as he ran his tongue over his teeth.

He was drunk. He knew he was drunk. Possibly the drunkest he'd ever been. He hadn't drank since regaining his soul and losing his ability to burn through alcohol, so he wasn't anywhere near braced for his lowered tolerance. Jason woke up his competitive streak like none other, so he'd pushed all of his usual caution to the side.

And he should have known better, too. He should have known that this was Todd's plan all along, that his end goal had been getting him trashed from the moment he'd sent him that text message.

He'd walked right into this trap, but he was too drunk to care about how drunk he was. Dangerous, to be sure, but he'd willfully put himself into more dangerous situations.

With Todd, he was trying to give him chances. Todd was trying to give him a chance, too.

"Precisely nothing," Damian said loftily, finishing his whiskey. "You will be 'doing' nothing to me, you insufferable prick."

"Ssssso," he said, dragging the _s_ out in a hissing drawl. "Does booze turn you completely British or something?"

Damian frowned. He hadn't been policing his own voice, so the shape of old vowels and consonants had surfaced.

"I spent much of my early childhood in England. One of Mother's favorite compounds was in London, so I still...when I've been drinking, sometimes..." he rolled his wrist, shrugging. "It gets more pronounced."

"You should drink until you're British more often," Jason said brightly. "This shit's hilarious."

"You're ridiculous. You sound like Stephanie."

He leaned back in his chair, balancing on two precarious legs.

"Could be worse. Steph's got a _pair_ , man. She's the only reason I gave you a fuckin' chance."

"And my bullet-free spine thanks you," he murmured dryly.

Jason barked a sharp laugh. "The good ol' days."

"The good old days," he sighed, chasing the thought with alcohol. "When I was young, and you were merely a sociopath in a pill-head helmet."

"Hated that helmet," Jason said, coming back down on all four chairlegs with a heavy thump. He carried himself lightly, but he was still a _big_ man. "And besides, that's all in the past. I'm a whole new man---a gentler, _kinder_ sociopath---and it's all thanks to you and her. That shit with the Joker was the most satisfying end I could imagine."

He smiled, but it wasn't a good smile. It was a smile that seeped in slow and deep.

"As much as I agree," Damian ground out, forcibly not allowing his thoughts to follow the oily, unwanted memories. "Don't bring it up with her. Ever. You know how she feels about it. You did what was necessary, but she took no pleasure in it."

Jason shrugged negligently.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ex-nay on the eal-day."

Damian knew Latin, but he'd only been briefly introduced to the idea of Pig Latin (by Steph, naturally). He didn't want to ask Todd for a translation---especially not after the next sentence out of his mouth.

"Even more impressive now that you know that she was preggers the whole time, right?"

Damian hadn't made the connection before that moment. It was a gut-punch, painful and glaringly obvious now that he saw it. His face felt hot and his insides felt icy. His disbelief strangled his thoughts.

"She did that---broke the deal--- _knowing_ she was pregnant?"

"Yeah, she did," Jason said, sipping his drink. "I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn't listen. She did it for you. Remember that, dickwad."

Damian stared bleakly at his empty glass, consumed by a surge of acerbic guilt. It left him feeling hollowed out and raw, ashamed of himself for not having known. A better partner would have. A better partner wouldn't have put her in such a position. If he had been half as smart as he imagined himself to be, he would never have made the deal, much less gotten so bullheaded and defeatist that _she_ had to save him.

And that brought up the sticky question of _why_. Why had she fought so hard for him? Even now, he wasn't sure if he'd deserved it. She'd put herself and their child at extreme risk. The gamble had paid off, but what if it hadn't?

What if she had died?

The thought made his stomach turn, hard.

He couldn't imagine it. He couldn't _let_ himself imagine it.

Jason must have caught the faint play of emotions on his face, because he clapped a hand on the curve between his neck and shoulder and squeezed.

"You cool, kid?"

"I'm fucking _fine_ , thank you," Damian snapped, though there was a worrisome hoarseness in his voice.

Jason squeezed his shoulder again, looking over at the bar.

"Hey, bartender? Can I get another for my mopey-ass birthday boy here?"

"Hate you," Damian told him with great sincerity.

"Wouldn't want it any other way."

The server came by with another round. Jason met her with cheery, put-upon flirtations, and Damian did his best to block it out. So, Todd was aiming for her genitals. Good for him. Damian had more important things to worry about---namely, what one more drink would do to his level of fairly-tipsy, and what he should do about the situation that waited for him back at the manor.

He hadn't fully processed Stephanie's 'surprise'. He'd wrapped his head around the concept---she was pregnant, and there was no question that it was his, and the child would be born in a few months' time. He just hadn't made the full jump between 'Stephanie is pregnant' and 'I'm going to be a father'.

Because 'I'm going to be a father' was a terrifying leap. While he _did_ want the child, he didn't know anything about babies, or pregnancy, or fatherhood. He'd been the product of a test tube, not his mother's womb, and his father had been a father in name only. Damian had no idea what a normal childhood looked like. His best bet was to do the exact opposite of everything that his mother had done when 'raising' him and pray that Steph would fill in the blanks. His mother hadn't prepared him for this.

His mother. _His mother_ would find out about this. Sooner or later, she'd find out about the baby, which in turn would mean that she'd find out about Stephanie. He wasn't sure which one troubled him more. Talia would be cross that he'd fathered a child so thoughtlessly, but she'd forgive him for his youthful indiscretions. It was Stephanie that she'd disapprove of and punish. He even knew what she would call her pregnancy.

Back yard breeding. His mother would call it back yard breeding. She'd see the woman he loved as a mongrel bitch that he'd bedded because he didn't know better, her first grandchild a disappointment and a mistake. Talia had never supported his choices, but this one would be the most personally offensive to her. Choosing his father over her had been bad, but she'd understood the draw of Bruce Wayne. This, she would not understand. He didn't think that she'd be able to appreciate the life he had built---and was continuing to build---for himself.

He would have liked to pretend that she might be happy for him, or at least that she would respect his happiness, but he knew better.

At least he had time, he decided. He had months before his mother's wrath and the baby's birth hit him head-on, so he would do what he'd been taught: he'd _prepare._

Damian pulled a pen from his jacket's breast pocket and started writing a list on one of the cleanest napkins.

He had no concept of how long he'd been mired in his own thoughts, but the server was long gone when Jason interrupted again. The damn man had the impetuous whine and annoyance of a small child.

...which was something that he had to get used to.

"What're you doing? Working on an autobiography? I'm sure it'd be a page-turner."

"No," he said shortly, hoping he had a sufficient amount of _fuck you, I'm busy_ in his tone.

"Lemme see," Jason said, _after_ he'd already pulled the napkin over to his side of the table. Damian's alcohol-muzzy reflexes were just a second too slow.

"This doesn't _concern_ you, Todd."

"'To do: babyproof the cave'," Jason read aloud, his grin slippery and wide. "'Ninjaproof the nursery. Put together a nursery.' Loving these priorities, by the way. Oh, this looks promising. 'Things to ask Stephanie. Will sex hurt the baby? Will you still want to have sex? How long will it take for you to return to patrolling? Who will care for the child while we patrol?' Uncle Jason will take care of his darling future niece or nephew, of course."

"Hardly," Damian growled, moving to snatch the paper away. Jason held it over his head, laughing.

"Lemme blow your mind a little. You just listen to wise ol' Jay and I'll give you some direction." He put down the list, pointing out each check box in turn. "First off, you knock yourself out with the proofing. Paranoid bastard is in your genes, so you're all set there. I pity the ninja. Question number one: sex will not hurt the baby, so feel free to go at it like bat-bunnies. Once she starts getting big, you'll have to use different positions. I don't have to explain doggy style, do I?"

Damian just _glared._

"Okay, so she's already taught you that one. So, number two: with your ass, she probably will want to fuck you. Number three: not a fuckin' second before she's ready to get back on the street, and if you push her there you'll deserve the kick she'll deliver to your nuts. And last but not least, number four: Uncle Jay is the best babysitter ever."

"Anyone who would trust you with a child is daft. I am not allowing you anywhere _near_ my son or daughter."

His son or daughter. _Those_ words were strange to say aloud.

"Maybe you say that now, but your baby's visitation rights are a two-vote system," Jason said, smug. "And your little lady likes me."

"She does," Damian said disdainfully, wrapping both hands around his glass and squeezing. Imagining that the glass was the Hood's neck helped, just a bit. "And I'm not _blind_ to the way you look at her."

"You can't blame a guy for trying his luck," he said, his smile much more toothy than usual. "But even with you out of the picture, she didn't want to get friendly with the little Red Hood. You knocked her up, you kicked her out, and she still wouldn't cheat on you."

Damian's jaw clenched. "I didn't kick her out. She left of her own volition."

"Details," Jason said with an airy wave. "All I know is that I hopped a flight to England in hopes of some rebound sex, and all I got was blue balls, Girl Robin tears, and the explanation that she couldn't without you."

He relaxed slightly, the alcohol-warm pit of his stomach warming further.

"She said that?"

"Yeah, which I think is kinda _interesting,"_ he said, balling up the napkin list and throwing it back to him. "She could've said 'no', but she said 'not without you'. Which makes me wonder about you two bad little bats."

Damian looked away. "What are you trying to imply?"

Jason leaned forward, elbows on the table. He was close enough, he could smell the gasoline and exhaust clinging to his leather jacket.

"Is she the only one you've been with?"

Damian more or less chugged his drink. "I don't see how it's any of your business who we've invited to share our bed."

"Well, I'll be damned. I told Dickiebird that you'd be a handful when your hormones kicked in. Who did you let spelunk your girlfriend's batcave? Inquiring minds."

"She chose the thirds," he said defensively. "Not me."

"Sweet, sweet confirmation," said Jason, lacing his hands together and resting his chin on them. "And the plot thickens, too. Either your lady is into ladies, or you've had a two-cock night. Which is it?"

He wouldn't stop chewing on the issue until he said something, and Damian was just drunk enough not to care what he told him. His tongue was loose in his mouth, a traitor he'd wish he'd knotted.

"The alien," Damian hissed between clenched teeth. In an undertone, he clarified, "Supergirl."

Jason looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "She brings home hot friends and you _still_ kicked her out?"

"I told you, I _didn't want her to go!"_

He said it louder than necessary, but Todd was digging into a wound that still bled fresh. Knowing what he did now, he was ashamed of his actions. He didn't need to be reminded of the mistakes he'd made, much less by _him._

Jason's eyes were glassy-bright in the bar's low light. Damian thought of the reflective, sharp shine of his cat's eyes in the dark. The look was predatory, but it glanced off him ineffectually. He'd strangled his ability to feel fear as a child.

"I know. C'mon," Jason said, jerking his chin toward a door. "Present time."

Oh. Time to go. Well, then.

Damian took his time getting up. He didn't relish the idea of showing anything but perfect balance and precision, because human or not he was the Goddamned Batman. A casual onlooker wouldn't have known he'd had more shots than he should have. That took concentration, though, so he wasn't fully aware of where he was being led.

He pushed the door open with his hip, rubbing the back of his neck in an effort to throw off his sluggishness. A part of him always fought for control, no matter if his muddled head was due to poisons or consensually consumed alcohol.

It took him a second to realize that the door hadn't led outside. It'd led to the bathroom: the disgusting, unsanitary public bathroom that he would not be using under any circumstances.

Jason had tricked him. The _bastard._

"If you had to piss, you could have said so," Damian said, eyeing for a spot where he was the furthest from everything unclean. "We aren't women, Todd. We don't need to accompany each other to the restroom as if we fear armed attack. _Really_ , you---"

Without warning, Jason bodychecked him against the graffiti-splattered wall. They were roughly the same height, but Jason easily had fifty pounds on him, as well as the advantage of surprise; his breath left him in an explosive woof. He probably should have seen this coming, but it'd blindsided him. He hadn't thought that his breezy flirtation had been sincere, but Jason had his thigh pushed between his legs, a hand fisted in his hair, and was kissing him.

Damian had only really kissed one person, and while she had trained him thoroughly, he was still unprepared for this. A man's mouth was different---chapped lips and the slight pressure of teeth, rough stubble and the smell of lighter fluid and menthol cigarettes.

His short nails scraped a trail up his side, dragging up from hip to ribs and then back down again.

Damian's competitive streak woke up before logic had a chance to fight its way past his drunkenness. He kissed him back, hard as a bite, and fought to control the angle.

It was different. Not bad, just different.

Jason broke the kiss, pulling away. A bead of saliva stretched and connected them until he licked his lips. Their ragged breathing was deafening in the cramped, ugly bathroom.

The Hood knelt. He was instantly bewildered, wondering what the hell he was doing getting _nearer_ to that floor, but then he popped open Damian's fly and the why became clear. He jerked his slacks and briefs down to bunch around his thighs, giving his dick a critical once-over. Much to Damian's personal dismay, he was already flushed and fat. His briefs were damp with a smear of pre-cum. Jason grinned.

"Well, what d'you know? The littlest Bat _has_ grown up. Impressive." He wrapped a hand around the base of his dick, calluses almost too rough. His hand was much bigger than Stephanie's, his grip strangle-tight. He stiffened further in Jason's hand. His head might have held reservations and questions, but his genitals weren't nearly as choosy.

"So," Jason said conversationally, one hand squeezing his ass and the other just shy of too tight around his dick. "This is what a genetically perfect cock looks like?"

"So I've been told," Damian said, chest heaving. He was dizzy, like he wasn't getting enough air. A tiny part of him was screaming---he was competition, he was not trustworthy, he was a _man_ \---but it was being shushed by curiosity and sedated by grain alcohol. He was so sure that the whole thing was some kind of joke, he actually yelped when Jason pushed his erection toward his navel and licked a broad, lingering path from root to head. _"Fuck."_

Jason's deep, low chuckle vibrated through him, making his hands clench spasmodically. He wasn't sure _when_ he'd knotted his fingers in Jason's hair, but it turned out he liked it pulled. He didn't need guiding or a push in the right direction---Jason swallowed as much of him as he could and Damian held onto his hair for dear life.

He'd never gotten head from someone who had tried to kill him before. This was something that came up sooner or later in the lives of heroes, but he had never thought that gray area sex would be like this. He'd imagined large-breasted sociopaths, not a former Robin on his knees. He'd imagined a life-or-death situation, coercion, but he---he wasn't attempting to kill Todd, nor was Todd attempting to kill him.

Damian was confused as to _why_ he was getting blown by a man who'd shot him on several occasions, but it was difficult to figure anything out when most of his brainpower was consumed by the tight, perfect damp heat of his mouth.

He couldn't take all of him, which wasn't surprising. Steph couldn't, either, though not for lack of effort. Jason's big fist pumped him as he sucked and bobbed, aggressive and _good_. The back of his head hit the dirty wall with enough force to make him briefly see stars.

When he came, it was wrung out of him. Punched and drained. He swore, hips jerking---and he didn't _care_ , didn't _care_ if he choked---but Jason held him to the wall with both hands. He'd have ugly bruises on his hips where his fingers had dug in.

Damian watched his adam's apple roll as he swallowed.

Jason ran the wet tip of his tongue over his lower lip.

"Not bad," he murmured.

And then it all caught up to him, his situation rendered in crystalline detail: he was in the dirty bathroom of a dive bar, softening cock hanging out of his briefs and Jason Todd kneeling in front of him.

It was all very, very real.

"Why the _fuck_ did you do that?" Damian hiss-whispered, hastily tucking himself back into his pants. The 'what ifs' rose in a frantic flutter---what if someone had walked in, what if someone had recognized him, what if he'd _tried_ something when he'd had sensitive parts near his teeth, what if, what if, what if.

"I dunno," Jason shrugged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips were very red. "'Cause I felt like it, I guess."

"You felt like it," he repeated, dumbfounded.

"I didn't get you a birthday present, so I improvised."

A birthday blowjob. Jason Todd had given him a birthday blowjob.

He was too tipsy to deal with any of that. He just wanted to go home and pretend that the latter half of his day had not happened. He wanted to forget that he knew how good Jason was at oral sex and reaffirm his leaning toward women by---

Stephanie.

"What am I supposed to tell Stephanie?"

"That I'm a bad man and I do bad things. She knows." Jason stretched with a satisfied sigh. "Now, how about one more round? I need to get the taste of cock outta my mouth before we leave."

Right. The taste of _his_ cock.

Damian had no idea how to feel about that.

"That's not a valid answer. I could have stopped you. She knows that, too."

"Yeah, you _could_ have," Jason said. The insufferable bastard was way too smug for a man who'd been on his knees and sucking dick not two minutes before. "But you didn't. You got head from a guy and you liked it. Them's the facts."

Damian took a deep breath, setting aside rationality to be dealt with later. He was almost certain that Steph _would_ understand the Jason Todd is a Bad Man defense... _if_ he told her.

"I think," he said. "That I would like another drink."

 

*

 

While Robins Two and Five drank birthday booze like real men, Steph enjoyed a night to herself. The Wayne Manor had been intimidatingly big when she'd first moved in, but it'd ended up being her home. Now, she didn't feel small and lost when Damian wasn't around---she just puttered around and did her own thing, watching mindless cartoons on the do-we-really-need-a-TV-that-big television and enjoying a romantic dinner for two with Alfred.

Dropping the bomb on Damian had gone way, way better than she'd anticipated. It was nice to be able to finally stop hiding her pregnancy and start planning for the eventual baby. From the time she'd realized she was getting sick in the morning thanks to morning sickness and _not_ because of stress and nerves on, she'd decided that this time, everything was going to be different. She wasn't a teenager, she was in a committed relationship, and money would never be an issue ever again. This baby was hers to keep, and she knew that she'd be able to provide for it. Hoping for a normal childhood was shooting kind of high, but she could at least keep her fingers crossed for a healthy one.

Steph drummed her fingers lightly against her stomach, pushing her salad around her plate with her fork. Her appetite came and went.

"Hear that, jellybean? You're going to have two parents. Two parents who play dress-up every night, sure, but you'll learn to like it. You could do a lot worse than a Batmom and Batdad. You could have Assassinmom and Crookdad."

Alfred made his thoughts on the subject known with a rumble-meow and a long stretch. She swore that the cat could hold a full conversation, replying thoughtfully and at length. He had to have some Siamese in him or something, he was so chatty. Alfie hadn't let her out of his sight since she'd come home, like he fully believed she'd disappear forever if he wasn't vigilant. She wasn't sure how cats perceived the passage of time, but with the way he was acting the months that she'd been gone had been an eternity to him.

He leapt nimbly onto the kitchen counter, carefully stepping around bowls and utensils in order to rub against her hand and arm. Steph smiled despite herself, skritching under his chin.

"Yes, Alfie, and the baby will also have a cat guardian. You'll protect him or her, because you're a badass and that's how you roll, right?"

He just purred, eyes sliding closed, and leaned into her fingers.

Until, that is, he heard something that she didn't quite pick up on. His triangular ears flicked up, then back, and his pupils narrowed. He started hissing, off the counter and out of the room before she could even react.

"Hey! Call off the attack cat! Jesus _christ!"_

Oh. The guys were back. Steph set down her fork and followed the increasingly vulgar and creative swear words. Jason was standing in the hall, Damian's limp body slung over his shoulder like a prize kill. He was trying his damnedest to shake off Alfred, who had puffed up to twice his usual size and was trying to scale his pantsleg in an effort to save his master.

"What the fuck," Jason half-laughed, half-yelled. "Did you teach this fuckin' cat the ninja arts?"

"No," said Steph, then thought about it. "Actually, yeah, probably. D and the cat have a special bond."

"Get it before it claws my junk and I dropkick it."

"It's okay, Alfie," she said, her tone placating. She grabbed the cat and tried to pry him away, but he'd dug in all of his claws and was spitting and growling like something that'd crawled out of the abyss. Steph had to pull off each paw separately, then bunch up his stiff, puffed-out body and cradle him to her chest. It took a few seconds of gentle murmuring and stroking down his back, but he calmed down. He climbed onto her shoulder and perched, shoulders hunched and yellow eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Alfred could do a stunning Batman impression. She wasn't sure if Damian had purposefully taught him that, or if he'd picked it up on his own. Either way, it made Jason snort.

"Special delivery, cupcake," Jason grinned, patting Damian's ass. "Where do you want me to drop this?"

"Fmmuuuuh youuuuuu," Damian mumble-slurred against his back. She hadn't realized that he was conscious, since it took an act of God or being passed out for Damian to allow himself to be carried.

"Jay, I asked you to take him out for a drink because I couldn't. What did you do, use a funnel and start pouring booze down his throat?"

"Hey, his sorrows weren't drowning themselves. I had to give them a hand."

Steph sighed deeply. "Just carry him to his room. There's no way I can do it myself, and drunkypants has to end up there eventually."

"Please, lead me to your boudoir," Jason said with a flourished twirl of one hand.

"How much did he have?" Steph asked, honestly worried. She'd seen him tipsy and she'd seen him drunk, but never quite like this. Either he'd forgotten what it was like to have a completely mortal tolerance, or he hadn't been honest with her regarding his baby-related feelings. The thought twisted up her insides with doubt. He'd _seemed_ sincerely happy, but would he have gotten this wasted if he was actually happy?

She really needed him to be okay with the baby. She really, really _needed_ him to be okay with the baby.

"Enough." Once in their bedroom, he unloaded Damian, dumping him on the bed. The Batman sprawled gracelessly, squinting at them both.

"I will never do this again," he said, rubbing his face with a groan.

"C'mon," Steph cajoled, trying for levity while some corner of her brain wept over the loss of her hopeful little bubble. "You didn't have any fun? You only turn twenty-one once."

"Fun? He," Damian said, pointing to Jason with an accusing finger that wobbled. "Kissed me. And also sucked my cock." He rolled over onto his stomach with a grumble. "Make of that what you will."

Her jaw dropped. She couldn't help it.

"You _did?"_ Steph said, staring at Jason. He shrugged.

"I thought you weren't going to tattle on me, asshole," Jason said waspishly, sitting down on the corner of the bed and smacking his shoulder.

Damian swatted blindly at him. "I promised nothing."

Silence blanketed them, cloying and heavy.

"How was it?" Steph asked finally. Alfred leapt up on the bed and planted himself firmly between his master and The Intruder, so Damian petted him instead of looking at her.

"I didn't hate it," he admitted.

"That means he liked it," she told Jason, who vibrated with laughter.

"Oh, he liked it. I _know_ he did."

It was muffled by the comforter, but Damian was growling. She had to wonder if he'd taught Alfred, or if Alfred had taught him, but he sounded like the cat when he was at his crankiest. In fact, Alfie was growling in tandem with him.

Sometimes, she just looked at Damian and had to remind herself that she was willingly reproducing with him---an assassin man-child who shared more in common with their cat than with the rest of the human race.

But she loved him. Like a lot. Maybe she loved him because he _was_ something bizarrely different.

"You...aren't angry with me? For that?" Damian asked, turning doleful blue eyes up at her. She swore she could _hear_ the rest of his question, though he left it unvoiced: _you won't leave again, will you?_

Things were still tender between them. Small things felt like they heralded disasters, repeats of the hell they'd been through.

He hadn't gotten drunk because he was upset about the baby, she realized. He'd been upset with _himself._ She'd misjudged how he'd been handling his load of post-broken-deal guilt. He was good at coating over his insecurities with pompous assholery, but sometimes the coating wore thin and his feelings leaked through.

She'd have to handle this situation delicately. A drunk and emotional Damian was an unpredictable Damian.

"Sweetie, I'm surprised that you didn't stab Jay for touching your junk," she said with a placid smile. "I'm not angry, though. I smelled that tension aaaaaaages ago."

 _"What?"_ Damian demanded, pushing himself up on his elbows. It came out as a heavily accented _wot_ that made Steph burst out laughing. She sat down next to him on the bed as she petered off into helpless giggles, tucking her legs under her and rubbing his back. She could feel his muscles shift and relax, the tension draining out of him at her touch.

"Let's put it this way. I know that you're not going to drop my fine batass and run away with him. I think I know you better than that. Me running away with Loveless is more likely than you running away with him."

Damian seemed to contemplate this very seriously. She definitely should have laid down ground rules and established a cut off point before turning Damian over to Jason.

"You _wouldn't_ run away with Loveless, would you?"

"Focus, D," Steph said, patting the nape of his neck. "You're my partner. Nobody else. We just have 'team ups' every once in a while. I know that at the end of the day, you're the one I'm with."

"I would challenge my own mother in armed combat before I allowed her, or anyone else, to take that away from me," Damian said in an undertone, brushing her thigh with the back of his knuckles. "This is the life that I have chosen."

"This is friggin' adorable," Jason said, watching with a cheshire grin. "Young love! So _good and pure."_

Steph just shook her head, sighing. "If you don't shut it, he's going to beat you to death with the lamp. You realize that, right?"

"Bring it," Jason said, gesturing with both hands. "I can take a sloppy drunk armed with light fixtures. Done it before."

Damian shifted like he was going to do exactly that, but she pushed him back down with both palms.

"No bloodshed. I'm not cleaning the carpets tonight."

"Fine," he said sourly. "Tomorrow, then."

"Your hangover will probably preclude you from any murdering, but sure."

Jason cleared his throat very purposefully. "So," he said, gesturing broadly. "Is everyone set and happy and _confident_ in their relationship, or should I just even the score? That'd be an easy way to put this whole mess behind us."

She looked at him curiously, half sure that she knew what he was implying, half sure that he couldn't possibly be implying _that._

"What?" Damian asked, glancing between the two of them for an answer.

"It's simple," Jason said in the silken tone of a salesman. "I gave you oral, so if I give her oral, too, it'll cancel out."

"That's not how math works," Damian said, though he didn't sound convinced. Bless his little drunken soul.

"It's how blowjob math works. Believe me."

"Are you serious?" Steph asked, arching a brow at him.

"You can take off your pants and find out," he grinned back.

Yes, he was serious.

Steph looked at Damian, who seemed to still be hung up on the logistics of blowjob math. "Would you feel like we're even if he did?"

"I..." his brows huddled together. "...if that _is_ how it works."

Jason clapped his hands together eagerly, but she cut him off before he could say anything.

"Not without him," she said, pointing to Damian.

"I never said it had to be without him, did I? He can watch, or..." he trailed off, summing up the possibilities with a shrug.

"Well," Steph said in her best diplomatic tone. "This'll probably be the last opportunity to sleep with me before I go all beached whale."

"What?" Damian asked, sitting up and listing slightly to the left. The poor man was just _lost._

"She means, this is the last chance to bang her before she gets fat."

"She's pregnant, not fat," he said crossly, glaring at Jason. "If you say 'bang' again, I will be forced to stab you, blowjob math or no. And yes, I do have a knife on my person."

"Terminology makes him grumpy," Steph said. "But yeah, that's what I mean. I'm losing this rocking bod in t-minus way too soon, so if we're going to even the 'score', we should seize the day."

"Pregnancy doesn't repulse me," Damian mumbled, leaning into her heavily. "It won't affect my attraction to you. You're carrying my child. I like that."

She couldn't help but smile.

"Is he always this free with his emotions in the bedroom, or is it the booze?"

"This is why we don't get him trashed, Jay. _This is why."_

"I dunno," Jason smirked. "This is the most fun I've had in a long time. So, ladies, what'll it be?"

"Yes," said Damian without hesitation.

"I guess we're doing this," Steph agreed.

Jason put his hands on her thighs, following them up to her hips. He pulled her down toward the end of the bed as he repositioned himself. Steph swallowed hard, her head more or less in Damian's lap and Jason's bulk between her legs. It was Damian who untied the bow of her sweats, who lifted her hips so that Jay could pull them down.

This was happening. This was a thing that was happening.

"Relax," Jason instructed, hooking his fingers in her panties and working them down. She was already wet---embarrassingly wet, because her libido had popped through the roof the last couple of weeks---but he took his sweet time. Lips and teeth sucking a trail between her thighs, then a surprising first flick of his tongue that made her buck reflexively.

Damian stroked back her hair---she reached for him as Jason got down to business, exploring the strokes and speeds that made her breath catch and quicken. She held onto Damian's ankle and let go of an unselfconscious, high moan. She hooked her legs over Jason's shoulders, forgetting the awkwardness as he worried her clit.

It'd taken her months of regular sex with Damian to actually orgasm. It'd baffled him, because he knew her history---all those dirty details that might have been kept quiet, had she never gotten pregnant as a teenager. He knew that she'd been having sex for years, so he hadn't understood why she either dismissed the importance of her orgasm, or simply couldn't relax enough to get there. She'd had to explain---haltingly, her face hot and red from shame---that most of the boys she'd slept with back in the day had either not known their way around female anatomy, or hadn't cared. And she'd learned to accept that, had internalized it. Sex had been about being wanted, not about pleasure.

He'd gotten so indignant about it. He'd claimed that theirs was an equal partnership, so she _would_ show him how to please her, and he'd do it until she let herself enjoy it.

So now, she knew her hot buttons. She knew what she liked, and she didn't care what kind of noises she made or how she looked when she came. It was about her, not anyone else. Jason listened for it, knew the cues, and it didn't take long before he had her gasping high little sob-like breaths and digging her nails into a fistful of blanket.

Jason lifted her hips, curling two fingers into her and _up_ ; the slippery-hot build of her orgasm reached that point of _almost there_ , of _sososoclose_.

She could feel him grin. He pushed harder, and there it was---there, right there, just enough. Steph trembled and arched, feet pressed against his back, and came with a half-strangled cry. That _sososoclose_ wound her so tight it was almost painful, so to finally release felt like a triumph.

Steph went bonelessly loose, still shaky, and sucked in desperate breaths as her heartbeat slowed its drumming in her ears. Jason left damp, sticky kisses on the inside of her thigh, then her belly.

It was that, of all things, that Damian got possessive over. He shifted, arms around her, and she twisted to kiss him. He leaned back and dragged her with him. She could feel his cock, hard and straining, and started helping him shed his slacks and stupid sweatervest before that timid little voice reminding her that _hey, Jason's still there and still watching_ could gather any strength.

She knew he liked her. She knew he would have been with her had Damian not been in the picture. She knew that she would have settled for him, for whatever it was about him that made her suck her lower lip between her teeth and _want_ , but it wouldn't have been love.

With Tim, it'd been love without sex. With Jason, it would have been just sex. With Damian, it was both. That was why he was her partner, her 'one'.

But that didn't preclude them from team ups.

Steph eased herself onto him, already prepped enough to take him in deep. She exhaled in a thin, ragged whine as Jason trailed his fingers down her spine.

Jason's voice was soft and low in her ear, encouraging her with little words.

"Take him. Good girl. _Goooood."_

She flicked a look at Damian, then at him. There was a question on his face, a curiosity: _can I have this dance?_ She nodded, reaching out for him---his broad shoulder, flat stomach, the hard line of his dick against his inseam. He was prepared---hadn't Bruce taught them all the importance of that?---so she didn't wonder as he moved behind her, already rolling down a condom and slicking himself up.

When he entered her, the fullness rode the fine line of being too much. She was a live connection between them, and they gave her a moment to relax, to adjust, before they started moving. She still chose the angle, making it right for _her_ , and just tried to keep up with the rolling rhythm they set. Jason squeezed her breast, Damian kissed her---it was muscles and movement, skin sticking together wherever they met.

Jason finished first, catching a bead of sweat that wormed down the nape of her neck with the tip of his tongue. He slid his fingers between them, finding her clit; she came again, keening, and dragged Damian with her.

It was exhausting. Good, but the kind of fuck that made every limb tremble. They extricated themselves, sprawling with Steph still between them. In the sticky afterglow, it was actually _pretty good._

"Now," Damian said when he could breathe again. "We are even."

Jason laid a palm on her sweat-damp belly, his big hand cupping the swollen little curve just below her navel.

"You know he's an idiot, right?" He rumbled, giving her a brief, private smirk.

"In my own defense, I've spent most of the last month asleep," Damian said, rolling so that he was face-first in the pillow. This was officially the most activity he'd had that week, and it showed. Steph gave herself a mental pat on the back for a job well done. "And I know that noticeable weight gain is not to be discussed with a woman, so I didn't mention it."

"I call bullshit on that," She said, shoving him. He was nearly two hundred pounds of post-orgasmic dead weight, so he didn't so much as budge. "How many times have you called me Fatgirl?"

"I grew out of that," he grumble-mumbled.

"And started calling me Fat _woman_ instead."

"Tradition is tradition," he said very seriously, but there was laughter in his eyes.

God, she loved him.

"I haven't...crap, what did Leslie call it. Bloomed. I haven't 'bloomed' yet because I have---soon to be had, ugh---strong abs. It takes longer for me to show, but when my abs give up, it's like," she mimed a curve over her stomach with both hands, nose wrinkling. _"Bam._ Go to bed kiiiiiind of pregnant and wake up super pregnant. I'm thirteen weeks, so...should be sooner rather than later."

The way that both men were looking at her was complicated. Poor Damian looked like he didn't know _what_ was appropriate to feel, so he frantically cycled through pride and possessiveness and scrutiny and confusion and attraction. Fatherhood probably wasn't something that he'd planned on jumping into for a few years at least, but unfortunately for him, she had the worst timing possible. Jason just looked pleased and kind of amused, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that one, either.

"I almost wish the old man was here to see this," Jason said gleefully, and patted Damian's bare ass. Damian wriggled closer to Steph with a growled mumble of curse words. "The bad Robins have fully corrupted his itty bitty babybat. Threesomes, debauchery, alcohol, and unplanned pregnancies. It's beautiful."

"High-five," Steph said, and he slapped her one.

"Insufferable," Damian sighed, and tucked Steph up against him. She never got tired of spooning up with him, his arm draped over her. "Both of you are completely insufferable." From the floor, Alfred yowled about his lack of attention. Jason was taking up his spot, and he wasn't pleased. "And don't even get me started on _you,_ harlot."

If Jason was still there in the morning, Steph decided as she closed her eyes, she'd make waffles.

They'd earned waffles.


	11. Klarion and Damian's Magical Cat Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "ALL the B-Day Sex".

Alfred hogged Stephanie without any guilt whatsoever. Damian loved his cat---truly, he did, deep down in that part of his heart that wasn't spoken of often---but sometimes he wanted to throw him out a window. The more her pregnancy progressed, the more aggressively loving the cat became. He followed her around the manor, standing guard outside of the bathroom door whenever she had to pee or was showering. He took his job very seriously, a black and white shadow that skulked within three feet of her at all times. If she was at the computer, he made himself comfortable in whatever was left of her lap. If she was lying down, he was either perched atop her belly or purring on the pillow next to her.

It started to annoy Damian. It would have been cute and endearing had Alfred been a lax guard, but he didn't tolerate any intruders in her personal bubble. Damian ended up with a face full of hissing, clawing feline on more than one occasion.

"This behavior is completely unacceptable," Damian announced as the cat eyed him moodily from his throne---also known as his partner's stomach. Alfred had his ears flattened against his head, his growl getting louder the closer he got to her.

"Who would have thought that your nemesis and greatest cockblock would be a cat?" Steph agreed, petting the traitorous animal. His ears flicked up and he arched against her hand with a purr.

"We can't keep living like this."

"I dunno, I think it's kind of cute."

"He bites me whenever I get too close to you at night."

"So he's a little jealous."

 _"He tried to eat my ear, Stephanie."_

"Goooood kiiiiiittyyyyyyy," she soothed, and he chirped happily back at her.

And Damian abruptly decided that he had had more than enough. He grabbed the cat by the scruff of his neck---making the monster yowl and hiss, swiping at him with claws unsheathed---and dropped him off the side of the bed. Alfred jumped back up, the hair on his back puffed, but he shoved him down again.

"Go," he growled at the cat, who growled right back at him. "You are not wanted here, beast."

Alfred's tail lashed the air, quick as a whip's arch, and he _looked_ at him.

And had he not been a cat and incapable of complex emotions, he would have thought that he looked _hurt_.

Alfred hissed, showing his teeth and rough pink tongue, and bolted.

"Did you really have to do that?" Steph asked, aggrieved. "You upset him. You can't carry a grown cat by his scruff like that. It chokes them. You could have hurt him."

"He's fine," Damian said, and took his rightful place beside her for the first time in a week. "He needs to learn his place. I refuse to be exiled from my own bed, especially by an animal."

"He was only trying to take care of me and the jellybean," she said, sighing. 'Jellybean' had been her slang with Beryl, when she'd needed a way to talk about the baby without calling it a _baby._ She'd needed a buffer, she'd told him, just in case circumstances had forced her to make the tough decision. The nickname had stuck, even if the baby had far outgrown jellybean size.

"He is a cat," he muttered, and put his arm around her. "He didn't even know what I was saying. Be reasonable."

He'd eat those words by the end of the night.

One should never doubt the intelligence and vocabulary---or the _feelings_ \---of a cat.

*

Their old standard had been a simple one. They'd been partners, working together as closely as Batman and Robin had back in the day. They'd been equals, and they'd learned to work nearly seamlessly side by side. Now that she was pregnant, he wouldn't allow her to patrol---there were just too many things that could go wrong, and that wasn't a risk either of them were willing to take. Batwoman was inherently a target, but a pregnant Batwoman was the equivalent of a villain's jackpot. Steph hated being stuck twiddling her thumbs, so she'd moved into a role similar to her old mentor's.

She was with him through a comm-link, even though she couldn't be with him physically.

It made the nights go by more quickly, though he'd never tell her that. He'd become co-dependent, and there was no power above or below that could drag that fact out of him.

He just let her think that he _endured_ having her voice in his ear.

Tonight's quarry was a bloodier case than he was used to---and in Gotham, that was saying a _lot._ Finding pimps with their hearts missing wasn't unusual---and god bless Gotham and its violent, gritty baseline of normality---but finding pimps that looked as if they'd been mauled by heart-eating cougars was something else altogether.

"And that makes four," Batman said, seemingly to no one in particular. Stephanie _hmmm_ 'd thoughtfully.

"Werewolf?" she said, and he scoffed.

"I thought that you were heading up the research, not the vague and stupid excuses."

"Werewolves happen, Damian. You don't even know. Werewolves and vampires are realish."

"They're as believable as your grasp on the English language. Now, tell me what these thugs have in common, if anything."

"You're a jerk, and if you keep being a jerk I'm going to pull out the 'you knocked me up and momentarily ruined my crimefighting career' card. And then you'll feel bad," she said imperiously.

"Debatable. Are you looking up those files, or shall I just turn off my cowl?"

 _"Jerkface McWaynebutt."_

He stifled a grin. Batman did not grin. Batman did not grin under any circumstance.

"I've got nothing," Steph said, sounding annoyed. He could tell that she was annoyed at herself, not him, which said a lot about their relationship. It took a lot to be able to ascertain which direction someone was being annoyed in. "As far as I can tell, this is random. I don't like that. It---"

A shadow to his left curled in a new direction, sinuous and alive. _"Shh,"_ he whispered, and she went dead silent. A light blinked briefly in his peripheral---she'd turned on the video relay from his cowl to the monitor in the cave.

Without any warning whatsoever, something _big_ sprang from the alleyway. At first he thought it was an animal, but it had obvious arms and bipedal legs. Then he thought it was a grievously lost puma, but the coloring and body shape was wrong. It was something black and white and between humanoid and feline. And it had _teeth._ teeth that had to be a full wicked four inches in length. He had no doubt that if it got its jaws on him, it would do its damnedest to get past his suit and sink its teeth into skin and bone.

He curled, bunched, planted his boots on the animal, and kicked as hard as he could. It shrieked and skittered away, but it quickly recoiled and sprang again.

Damian had no patience for it. He freed his stun gun from his utility belt, jammed it against its neck, and unloaded enough volts to make it twitch and then go still.

He swore, pushing it off him. Christ, it was bigger than he was, and he wasn't a small man by any means.

It looked like a Broadway actor that had taken his craft to a terrifying level. It was almost a cat, almost a person, and wholly monstrous.

"Oh my god," Stephanie's voice sounded high and frantic inside his cowl. She'd gone so quiet, he'd almost forgotten she was there. "It's Alfred."

It was a pity that his partner wasn't around to see the glare that he was giving her, as well as the damned beast lying at his feet.

"Don't be preposterous. I didn't know that pregnancy affected one's rationality to this degree," he said stiffly, which earned him a _"DAMIAN"_ so loud and shrill, he winced.

"It's Alfred," she repeated earnestly. "Listen to me. That's our cat. God, I can't believe I didn't realize it before now, but I guess that _everyone_ thinks that their cat is smart. And that their cat is a cat. P.S., our cat's not a cat."

"Listen to yourself," he sighed. "Replay that all through your head, then get off the line and go to bed. You're clearly overtired."

This prompted another, shriller shout of his name. It rang in his skull.

"Damian, I _know_ what I'm talking about! I punched a pilgrim, once, okay? I've had this adventure before. Alfred's not a cat. He's a demon. He's a demon, and he's your familiar, and he fell in love with the baby, and now you've gone and broken his heart and all he wanted to do was be a good big brother, you bastard. You ran him off, and he's been trying to get your attention all night. It all makes sense!"

"No. Make sense." Not wanting a third repeat of her eardrum-shattering shriek, he added, "Please."

She sighed again.

"Okay. Okay, so this one time---Valentine's day. Years and years ago. I got caught up in a case of a monster eating human hearts. Turns out that it was the familiar of this blue-skinned kid named Klarion. A nice kid, despite the blue skin and the pilgrim fetish and the magic. Weeeeee _might_ have made out a little. Which wasn't bad, I guess, because it was Valentine's Day and I was kind of depressed and going blue was feeling like it could be a thing---"

 _"Focus."_

"---and the familiar was a cat. A cat that had fallen in love, but Klarion was all jealous because he thought that his cat BFF would leave him, so he stopped the cat from loving his little kitty girlfriend. The cat went on an uncontrollable murder rampage, because apparently they don't fuck around with their feelings."

 _"Tt._ And how did you stop it? Not that I believe you, by the way, but I'm willing to entertain you. This is me being sensitive to your delicate condition."

"And fuck you, too, Batman. Anyway, I went with Klarion to Limbo Town and stole a girlfriend for his cat. The cat went from being crazy and murderous back into a happy little kitty. And that's why I'm trying to get my shoes on. Stay right where you are with him. He just wants to cuddle with me."

"Absolutely not," Damian hissed. The animal was unconscious, but there was no way he was allowing her even miles near it. Had she forgotten that it'd been eating hearts? Even if it was Alfred, it couldn't be trusted. "Stay _there."_

"Your familiar is eating organs, honeybunches. And he's eating them because he's sad. I am dead serious when I say that the _only_ thing that'll make him happy is you telling him it's okay to keep protecting the baby. He's acting on instinct. So shut up, suck it up, and wait for me."

He couldn't believe that he was debating on agreeing to this. Then again, he couldn't believe that his cat was a demon, and that he could turn into a six and a half foot tall furry murder machine if his fragile emotions were compromised.

"Your mate is correct," said a cool, prim voice by his elbow. "I meant for the familiar to be hers, as I felt she needed the protection. But, she chose to give him to you, and he has taken to protecting you both. If you had any sense at all, you would be flattered. That is very rare. They are jealous creatures."

The man was about the same size as Stephanie, not including his hair. Said hair curled into fanciful horns on either side of his head. His hair was his leas interesting feature, though---that dubious distinction went to his skin, which was a vibrant shade of blue.

He glared at Damian. Damian glared back.

"So. He," he gestured at the black and white monstrosity passed out on the ground. "Is a cat."

"Ah. No," the witch-man said, holding up one finger. "He is your _familiar._ He only chooses to take the shape of a cat."

"That is the same thing," Damian said dourly, only to be cut off by a discordant _"NO."_ from both the relay in his ear and the man beside him.

"He chooses to be a cat. It is his chosen expression," the blue-skinned man explained, kneeling beside the beast. He gently stroked a long-nailed hand over his triangular head. "You poor darling. You were trying so hard, weren't you? You are so young, still. So emotional."

"I take it that you are Klarion," Damian more sneered than said. It wasn't often that he met someone completely immune to his sarcasm and growls. The way the witch was acting, they were having a perfectly civil conversation.

"Yes. I am he." He straightened, then turned to him. The cat perched on his shoulder---something that Alfred had done to Damian so, so many times---stared at him with baleful yellow eyes. "I feared that I would have to reclaim your familiar and bring him back to the Tree. But, if Stephanie is coming, your familiar shall gather his wits again and be soothed. He was only doing as he thought he must."

"He thought that he had to eat hearts," Damian said leadenly. "Please, tell me that you're kidding."

"No. I'm deadly serious. He felt a void in himself, denied a love he desperately desired. So, he sought to fill it. It's in a demon's nature, you see."

 _"Tt,"_ said Damian. He did not see. He did not see at all.

Stephanie got there more quickly than he would have anticipated---he didn't dare ask how fast she'd been driving. Her face was flushed and she was short of breath, but with the way the baby was pressing up into her lungs, that was her new normal. Things like that were the very reason why it made him jitter to have her on the street.

The street had taken too much from the Wayne family for him to ever feel comfortable letting his important things free into it.

"Oh," she said hollowly, crestfallen. "Oh, Alfie."

Stephanie very carefully sat down next to the creature. She pet his back with both hands. He rumbled and growled, starting to shift again and come to. Damian's hand automatically rested on the butt of his taser.

"Alfie, I'm sorry," she said, scratching behind his ear. She was utterly fearless, convinced that this _thing_ was the tiny furry thing that had slept at the foot of their bed for the past three years. The monster stirred with a low growl that rattled through Damian. "Shh. I'm here, big guy. It's okay. Calm down. I know you were upset because Daddybat threw you out like the Flinstones' cat, but he's sorry. He didn't get that you were worried about me and the baby. Calm your tits and come home, Alfie. I can't sleep without a snuggle buddy. "

Alfred opened a yellow eye the size of a tennis ball. His narrow pupils flicked to look at Stephanie, then tracked his movement as he took a step closer. The thick hair on the back of his neck rose.

"I apologize," Damian said, though he felt stupid apologizing to a cat---even if he was a cat _demon_. Alfred blinked his luminous eyes once, twice, and then he stood.

More than stood, he _towered._ It was a strange feeling, being dwarfed. The cat-demon- _thing_ regarded him seriously, then headbutted him. He rubbed his head under his chin, starting up a purr that all but vibrated his teeth in his head.

"Good kitty," he said awkwardly, petting him. "I see my error. Please come home and refrain from eating any more pimps. I can't see their hearts being palatable. You can have salmon treats instead, if you'd like. And you may sleep with Stephanie, if you deem it necessary to protect her. I don't want you to stop protecting her."

His purr quieted, but only because he began shrinking. Soon enough, Alfred the cat was back on all fours and twining around his boots.

She looked tired, and it took his helping hand to get her to her feet again, but Steph was smiling.

"So," he said, not even touching on the fact that the blue-skinned man had disappeared as artfully and suddenly as Batman himself. "We've been keeping a demon as a pet this whole time."

"Is it bad that it's not a big shocker to me? This is us. This is our lives. Nothing is ever normal, D."

"I." He sighed. "I suppose that you're right."

Damian crouched, holding out his hands. Alfred rolled to his feet, rubbing his long body against his fingers. He picked the cat up, letting him clamber up to his shoulder. He dug his claws into his cape and thrummed with a deep purr.

Having a possessive cat-demon wasn't the worst thing that could happen, he decided. Better than owning a goldfish, at least.


	12. Off the Record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "Klarion and Damian's Magical Cat Adventure".

"You don't have to do this," Damian said, a rare gentleness in his voice. The car had pulled up to the front doors and the driver was waiting for them to get out. The paparazzi were also waiting, Steph knew, and there wouldn't be any dark shadows to blend into. She was pretty sure that she could still pull off a batvanish at eight months pregnant, but it wasn't an option. They were there to be seen, like a normal celebrity couple.

Whatever a normal celebrity couple was, anyway. They wouldn't know _normal_ if it walked up and hit them in the face.

"I always go," Steph said with a sigh. "Doing a stellar impression of a beached whale isn't enough to get me out of the Wayne Foundation Christmas gala. If I don't make an appearance, people will talk."

"People are going to talk, regardless," he murmured, spreading a hand over her belly. "They're going to find this newsworthy."

"I know," she said, and patted his hand. "But it's better if they find out now, before she's born. That way, we'll head off the 'adopted' or 'secret lovechild' rumors. She doesn't need to start off her life questioning whether or not I'm her real mom or whether or not we're ashamed of her."

"You haven't been hiding," Damian pointed out. "You've had to recuperate. And you simply..."

"I haven't wanted to deal with the stress of media twenty questions. But. I guess it's time to man up and get it over with."

He didn't seem comfortable with the idea, or convinced that it was a good one. But, he kissed her, got out of the car, and then helped her out. Her balance was still excellent despite the new weight distribution, but a normal woman would need a hand getting up gracefully. They both had to play their parts.

The response was immediate. As it should be, Steph thought ruefully. There was no missing her baby bump, not even with the most artfully cut dress. There was an eruption of camera clicks and flashes and voices calling out "Mr. Wayne".

Her lips thinned as she frowned. She was the pregnant one, but they were trying to get _his_ attention for a quote. Typical. Damian ignored them with an intensity only he could lend to ignoring things. She slipped her arm with his and let him lead her inside. It was easier to steer clear of the press there, but it still felt like she was getting the eye from all angles.

And, she got it. She did. She knew how it looked to anyone who didn't know them. He was the leonine twenty-one year old billionaire, and she was the twenty-nine year old daughter of a known felon. She was a nobody, and he was the toast of Gotham's elite. Not only did she have the gall to seduce the man that every inheritance baby wanted to get her claws in, she was now pregnant with his child. To the public, she looked like a cradle robbing gold digger. They couldn't see what he saw in her, because they only saw her scars and averageness.

They only saw Damian Wayne and that older girlfriend of his, not Batman and Batwoman. They'd never get the whole story of why their relationship worked, so for the most part Steph just held her head high and made the bare minimum of appearances. She showed up often enough to keep away the gnashing teeth of the frustrated wealthy girls, and was always gracious---no matter what.

It was far from being the first time in her life that someone had put her down or assumed things about her. They were never very vocal about it, of course, because Damian would either literally or metaphorically cut the legs out from under them, but a girl knows when the popular clique is gossiping about her.

Especially when you're a girl whose senses have been honed by bat-training. She caught the eye of a woman with an airbrushed face and smiled at her ferociously.

Damian gave her arm a warning squeeze.

"Don't start a fight. Mind your blood pressure. Doctor's orders, Stephanie."

"If I wasn't supposed to start a fight," Steph said, still smiling beatifically. "The steak knives wouldn't be so sharp."

"I love you," Damian told her quietly, fiercely, and meaningfully. Those three words weren't ones that got trotted out often, so they brought warmth to her cheeks.

Whatever anyone else thought was irrelevant. He loved her, and he loved their baby, and that was what mattered.

"You just love a girl who knows her way around sharp objects," she teased, and kissed his cheek. "I'm going to sit and let the judging masses come to me. You make your rounds, then we high-five and call it a night. Okay?"

"Okay," he agreed, and let go of her arm. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but eking out 'I love you' had exhausted his emotive abilities for the night.

Usually, she was the one who made the social rounds, but she wasn't in the mood to have her swollen belly pet and cooed at, so all that was delegated to Damian for the night. She took a seat at one of the richly appointed tables, sipping some water from a wineglass and telling herself that no, she shouldn't slip a steak knife into her handbag _just in case._ She hadn't been seated for ten seconds before Tim fought his way through the milling crowd and sat down next to her.

His face was flushed, his cheeks flexing as he clenched his jaw.

"He didn't tell me," he growled. Bat people were just too friggin' _good_ for _hellos_ and _how are yous_.

"Try that one more time. Dial down the vague, if you don't mind."

"Damian put out an office memo yesterday that said you were pregnant, but he..." Tim ran his hands through his hair agitatedly. "Failed to mention _how_ pregnant you are."

"You know he does crap like that just to mess with you, right?" Steph said, grinning. Tim looked like he was a nudge away from having a heart attack. "Because giving you gray hair is his main mode of entertainment."

"He's a _horrible person,"_ he said, aghast.

"Soulless," she agreed. "And yes, I'm more than a little bit pregnant. Surprise? I was trying my hardest to avoid a baby shower. I would've gotten away with it, too, if not for you meddling kids."

He looked helplessly guilty, like it was some great failing in him that he hadn't known she was having a baby again. It was that _again_ that'd kept her from shouting the good news from the rooftops, though. She hadn't wanted to tie the old, sour-edged memories with the new ones she was making. It was selfish of her, but she couldn't help it. Tim was a good friend, but he'd been the best friend when he'd supported her during her first pregnancy. It wasn't a nostalgia that she'd wanted to awaken.

"I didn't want the media in on this. The last thing I want is to have a reporter breathing down my neck," she said, and jumped a little when someone behind her cleared their throat pointedly.

"Maybe you shouldn't have personally invited a reporter, then, Ms. Brown," Clark said, his smile saturating his voice. Steph squeaked, color rising in her cheeks.

Clark Kent was different. Yes, he was a reporter, but he was also their alien homeslice. He was one of the few people that they could trust with everything and anything. He had his own secret kept behind his round-framed glasses.

"Hi, Mr. Kent," Tim said, getting up and gesturing to his vacant chair. "Feel free to take over. I need to have a heart-to-heart with my _brother."_

Steph smothered a smirk as poor, bewildered Clark watched Tim storm off. The wattage of the smile he gave her was off the charts. When Superman smiled at you, it was like being dunked in a tub full of sunshine and then lightly dried off with a quilt of okayness stitched together by hopes and dreams. If he had the time to hug everyone in the world, war would end. Steph firmly believed this.

"So, Stephanie, I think I've got an idea of why you asked me to come tonight."

"Sorry. I kind of had an ulterior motive," she said, resting her hands on her stomach. "Since I have this feeling that there's going to be some...buzz in the papers tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? I'd bet dollars to donuts that it's already trending on Twitter."

"I'm not sure what surprises me more---the fact that you just said 'dollars to donuts' with a straight face, or that you know what Twitter is."

"I may be a country boy at heart," Clark said with a wink. "But I'm full of surprises."

Talking with him made her relax. Nothing could be terrible if Clark Kent was winking at you.

"You...know what I mean, though, right?" Steph said, biting her lower lip. "I don't want the charity event overshadowed by rich hussies talking crap about my impropriety. And I don't know if I can deal with the rags talking about Mr. Wayne's illegitimate child and how I'm---I just don't see this thing getting a rosy treatment."

"I understand," he nodded. "And I know that you're up against some vocal chatterboxes. They expect certain things out of their media darlings, and..."

"And Damian is a trainwreck that they don't know how to process. I'm not the Cinderella story that they want to see him Prince Charming up, so." Stephanie tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice, but she couldn't chase it all out. "I just don't want this for my kid. Growing up is hard enough as it is."

"If you don't mind me asking," Clark said, folding his hands together. He sounded like nothing more than a worried parent. "Why haven't you and Damian decided to get married? Off the record."

That...was a good question. It hadn't been something that they'd even discussed, really. It'd seemed like a waste of time, an unnecessary ceremony to prove something to a world they didn't care about. They knew that they were committed, and they didn't need to jump through hoops and get a certificate to show off. Damian's parents hadn't been married, and hers had been trapped by their marriage. Whenever Steph thought about the legal obligations that had made her and her mother literal prisoners in a house full of hoods, panic rose in her chest. It was a visceral reaction. She'd sworn to herself that she wouldn't ever get tangled up with a man the way her mother had.

But Damian Wayne was no Arthur Brown. He wouldn't strangle her with a marriage certificate. She was the woman that had saved his soul and was carrying his child. His partner.

Yes. He was her partner. She wouldn't mind calling him her husband, too.

"One second," Steph said, and fought her way to her feet. She would be glad when she wasn't toting around a big, healthy, genetically awesome Wayne baby. She wasn't as young as she used to be, so her back and ankles were counting down until B-day.

She found Damian talking to a Japanese businessman---in fluent Japanese, of course. He had the Wayne charm cranked up to eleven, so she took a brief moment to appreciate him from a distance. He'd come a long, long ways from being the surly, emotionally retarded ten year old she'd bullied into a moonbounce.

"Sorry to interrupt," Steph said, smiling graciously and bowing as well as her belly would allow. "But I need to speak with Mr. Wayne for a moment. I promise I'll return him to you."

Damian looked more worried than annoyed, searching her face for clues. She could almost _see_ him fretting about what someone had or hadn't said to her, what slight he'd need to swiftly avenge. He rested a balancing hand on the small of her back, frowning.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I just want to marry you, that's all. I'd get down on one knee, but I wouldn't be getting back up."

His eyebrows beetled madly as he tried to process what she was saying. It was kind of adorable.

"You're serious?" he asked, baffled.

"Completely. I'm proposing to you, Damian Wayne," Steph said cheerfully. "It's in your best interest to say yes. I promise I'll make you a very happy bride."

"You---" he was caught somewhere in a knot of confusion, exasperation, and amusement. "Do you want to? Truly?"

She took his hand and kissed his knuckles. "Listen, D. I'm not dicking around. In case you haven't noticed, I'm kinda serious about you and us and this thing we've got going on. I don't think I've been more serious about anything in my life. I went to bat against Satan for you. Do you know how many girlfriends would do that? Not many, because there's approximately a million more fish in the sea that have souls."

"I realize that," Damian said quietly, not looking away. "You are unique. I---if you want to---I would---"

"Just say yes, stupid," she said, with the deepest fondness possible.

Damian smiled. "Wife is a more acceptable label than girlfriend. It's more befitting for a woman your age."

"Don't ruin the moment. I'll have to hurt you if you ruin this moment."

"Fine," he said, rolling his eyes. "I will marry you, even though this proposal is highly unorthodox and slightly ridiculous."

"Mm, you say that like we've ever done anything by the book. I need to go talk to Mr. Kent, because holy headlines, Batman, have I got a scoop for him. C'mere and kiss me before you get back to your businessing." Steph tugged on his ear until he leaned down far enough to kiss.

"As you wish, Mrs. Wayne."

He more than made up for the almost-ruined moment.


	13. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "Off the Record".

Damian didn't sleep much out of force of habit, but once Laila was born he almost gave up sleep entirely. It wasn't that she was an overly fussy baby---no, she was very normal and even, waking up every few hours but dropping back to sleep quickly after nursing. No, his reason for staying awake was a reason all his own: he was scared shitless that something would happen to Steph or Laila if he wasn't watching.

It was an all-new height of paranoia, and he logically knew that he was being ridiculous. Though she was still recovering, Stephanie was more than capable of taking care of herself and their child. They could have easily slept in shifts.

But Damian was essentially an orphan. More than that, he was a man who had lost too much _not_ to be jealously protective of the things he did have. Paranoia had been bred into him, and love and fear brought it out in equal parts.

He felt horribly justified a little over a month after Laila's birth, when he was making his rounds and saw a long, angular shadow cast against the wall of the baby's room. He was so scared, so furious, so keyed up and emotional, he very nearly killed the man standing over the crib. The assassin was excellent to have gotten that far without tripping any of the defenses, so it didn't surprise him when he blocked his first strike. Blood pounded in his ears, a harsh drumming that sounded almost like his name; the man blocked again and again and---

And it sounded like his name, because it _was_ his name.

"Damian! Damian, calm down. Stop! It's me! Damian, _stop!"_

It wasn't rationality winging in that made him freeze. It was the voice, the tone. His ten-year-old self responded to it, recognizing it as a command he had to follow.

With a firm grip still on his wrist, the not-quite-assassin pulled back his hood. The buttery glow of the baby's nightlight illuminated Dick Grayson's grin.

Damian took frantic, choppy breaths through his nose, nostrils flaring. He was stymied by his inborn cynicism and how _badly_ he wanted it to be him, caught between the two extremes. It was improbable---no, impossible. He didn't look like he'd aged at all in the years since he'd seen him last.

Dick let go of his wrist, squeezing his shoulder.

"You got tall, Little D. Can I at least get a hug and a welcome home?"

"No," Damian said, his voice breaking like he was still a prepubescent boy. "You may have neither. You can't be here. You can't."

"Have I got a funny story," Dick laughed, grinning 'til his crows' feet gathered. "It starts with me wandering around the Himalayas, half dead until I stumbled upon Nanda Parbat, and ends with me hooking up with Deadman's patron goddess. Did you know she's a _redhead?"_

It was him. His brother had found his way home again.

Damian dragged him into an embrace that crushed the air out of him.

"You could have sent a postcard. A _pigeon,"_ he snarl-whispered, not wanting to wake the baby---or admit to having missed him as desperately as a lost limb.

"Sorry," he murmured, and took control of the hug. This was fine by him; Dick's hugs were better by half. "The city is juuuust outside of the timestream. If I'd known I'd been gone this long, I would've told the nice goddess to give me back my pants and call a holy cab." He paused, then drew away. He stared at the cradle. "Damian. Is she _yours?"_

He swallowed hard, then nodded.

"Yes," Damian said, with all the pride and fear of a new father. "Her name's Laila."

Dick's features struggled with ten emotions at once. It was like he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"I missed so goddamn much. Can I...?"

Damian leaned over the cradle, very carefully gathering up his baby girl. Laila had a tiny fist in her mouth and was sleepily sucking on it. He made certain her lavender blanket was wrapped snugly around her, then put her in Dick's arms.

His brother held her with impossible care, tucking her against his shoulder and stroking her soft cheek with his thumb.

"She's gorgeous," he said, and his smile won out.

"What the fuck," Stephanie said from the doorway, her voice sharp and confused. "Damian, what the fuck---Dick, the fuck are you---you flip in here at three in the morning, no phone call or e-mail letting us know that you're in the neighborhood and also _not dead_. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?"

"Her mother," Damian told him with a smug smirk. Even overtired and cranky, he personally believed her to be radiant.

"I was released into the Twilight Zone," Dick said, and shook his head. Laila yawned widely, her tiny hand curled around his pinkie. "You're an adult, you have a kid, and---holy crap, _you're having sex._ I'm so proud of you, Little D. _So proud."_

"I'm going back to bed," Steph announced, throwing up her hands. "Gimme the backstory in the morning."


	14. Vows: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "Homecoming". Part one of three.

"I'm not getting married when I'm this close to popping," Stephanie groused from her paperwork-and-Oreos nest on the bed. Alfred was gleefully shredding one of the reports that Damian was supposed to read and sign. She looked forward to watching him explain to Lucius that he didn't have it because the cat ate his expense reports. _That_ would go over well. God willing, Tim would be there to witness this conversation. It would do his heart good.

"I don't see why it'd be a problem," Damian said from the computer desk, shrugging. "It's not like we have to preserve the illusion of your chastity. It's obvious to anyone with eyes that neither of us are going into this marriage as virgins."

Steph frowned, setting the papers aside and skating her fingers over her belly. She'd gotten bigger with this baby than with her first pregnancy. She couldn't tell if that was thanks in part to superior Wayne genetics, or just due to carrying this one to term. Her first daughter had been an emergency c-section, weeks before she was due. The fact that she'd gotten this far without any complications was a massive relief, but that didn't mean she felt comfortable with finding out what size of dress she’d have to squeeze into.

"Ugh. I don't expect you to get it. It's not the whole virginity thing that I'm trying to avoid---it's waddling my way to the altar. We don't have any reason to rush, so do my pride a solid favor and let me drop my baby pudge before we tie the knot."

"A sick old saying, that,” Damian said distractedly, not looking up from the information databanks he was sifting through. “Reminds me of dogs copulating."

Steph threw an Oreo at the back of his head. Nailed him, too.

"You are the single unsexiest person I have ever met,” she said, taking a large bite out of an Oreo. “And I dated Tim ‘My Chastity is in Peril’ Drake."

"Regardless,” he said, chasing cookie crumbs out of his hair and the collar of his shirt. “I'm on no timetable. If you want to wait until after the baby is born, we will wait."

"I just don't want to, I don't know," Steph groped for an explanation, mouth puckered into a tiny frown. "A Wayne marriage is a big deal. I don't want it to look like a shotgun wedding because I'm pregnant and you decided to pity the poor fake-former-employee."

Damian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Stop that. Immediately."

"Stop what?"

"Talking about yourself that way. I am sick of it!” His voice took on a brassy ring, loud and annoyed. She couldn’t tell if he was annoyed at her, or a the world at large. “What they think about you is irrelevant. I don’t know how to make my view any clearer, and I’d like to believe that my opinion of you carries more weight than theirs.”

"You don't care what anyone thinks of me?” Steph asked, before she could stop herself. “Not even Talia?"

She'd heard the phone call he'd gotten in the middle of the night not two weeks before. He'd tried to sneak out of bed and keep his voice down, but Steph was barely sleeping anymore and Damian had no concept of inside voices when he was angry. She'd pretended to be asleep, listening to his side of the conversation. He'd been speaking rapid Arabic, so the discussion hadn't been meant for her ears. She knew more than enough about inflection and what emotion did to Damian's tone to know _exactly_ what was being talked about.

Of _course_ Talia wouldn't like her. She was the polar opposite of what the al Ghul name stood for: she was classless, she was American, she was---gasp!---actually _carrying_ her baby instead of depositing the fetus in a test tube with a thumbs up and a wink, and she was keeping the heir of the House of al Ghul from making an appropriate political match. Their relationship was organic, it was messy, and it was natural. They'd fallen into it, and nothing had been set up beforehand.

Talia was probably having kittens over it.

Damian shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"Mother has lodged her complaints. I've chosen not to heed her words of wisdom. Frankly, she can fuck herself. She thinks you an unfit mother and tried to tell me that the child would be better off raised by her people. I told her that you've had more personal contact with the baby in the months you've carried her than Mother has had in my entire life with me. Mother, Grandfather, and my brother have all been uninvited from our eventual wedding ceremony."

Steph stared at him, actually speechless. Standing up to Talia wasn't something that'd ever come easily for him. No doubt, she'd tried to sweeten the deal by inviting him back to the fold, if only he'd bring her granddaughter and drop the chaff. She wondered if he'd contemplated it, even for a second. He'd never stopped wanting his parents to love him, and it'd nearly cost him his soul.

"Did you actually tell her to fuck herself?"

He cleared his throat. "I was angry. So. Yes. I did."

"C'mere, you rebel. You earned makeouts."

Damian didn't need more than a nudge in the right direction. He laid down next to her, stretching out his long legs with a satisfied sigh. It was always surprising to her when she realized he’d gotten a little bit taller, or a little bit broader, or a little bit closer to looking like a fully mature man. Damian was still growing. He’d been a gangly teenager caught between being a man and a boy when they’d first gotten together, but now there was no mistaking him for a child. In the nine months since the night she’d left, he’d truly grown up. He was a work in progress, but she liked where he was going.

"You and me, we're going to get married," Steph said, kissing him. "And then we're going to honeymoon so hard I will be disappointed if we don't break something."

"If _that's_ your goal, I suppose waiting until after the baby is born is a wise idea. Your water is not what you want to break, I imagine."

"Nope. Not really,” she agreed wryly, tucking in neatly against his side. “But my stress level should be fine, now that I know for sure that Mama al Ghul won’t be showing up for the wedding shower. Should we worry about Daddy appearing to give me away?"

"No," Damian said, and there was some barely-audible strain in his voice that gave her pause. "I don't think that we should worry about him."

She looked at him, and he looked back unblinkingly, his hand still on her stomach. She could feel that there was something there, that she _should_ ask, that there was a possibility that she wouldn't have to worry about Daddy ever showing up unannounced ever again. It sent a chill up her spine, but it wasn't a totally bad feeling. It was like owning a lion---she'd gotten so friendly with him and trusted him so implicitly, she forgot that he was still a dangerous wild animal. When the realization dawned, it was always with startling clarity.

She trusted him, and she loved him, and she knew that he'd never hurt her, but Damian Wayne was still a man born in a vat of chemicals and raised by assassins. He was every bit the barely-tamed predator.

Steph knew better than to ever ask. There were some things that she simply had to trust him on. He'd made a promise to protect her and their child, and he fulfilled it in the ways he knew how. He'd keep away anyone who could jeopardize their happiness---including his mother and her father. She'd never have to doubt his dedication or fidelity.

She didn't know how to reply to that. What would be anywhere close to appropriate? The idea of Daddy being 'gone' was complicated, nauseating. It was like finding out the monster underneath your bed had moved somewhere new. There was a sense of relief, but it was cut by guilt---he'd been _her_ monster, a kind of obligation---and the irrational fear that he couldn't really be gone. Would being happy that she was finally free make her a bad person? Was it wrong to feel relieved that she didn't have to worry about him ever going near her daughter? Steph couldn't pry apart her feelings, so she just put her arms around Damian's neck and held onto him.

This was the family that she'd chosen.

 

*

 

Getting back in shape post-baby was easier than she had thought it’d be. It turned out that _My Partner was Raised by Assassins_ exercise plan did wonders. Had it just been her working on her own, she would have taken longer to drop the extra weight and gain back muscle strength. Damian was a merciless coach and a constant aggravation, but those were Steph’s best motivators. With his high standards and her stubbornness, she was back and swinging within three months. They waited until summer to have the wedding, though, because Steph had made an executive decision: it’d be on the Wayne property, and it’d only be for close family and friends.

Close family and friends being roughly half the cape and cowl community, of course.

There was no way that anyone would try to spoil the wedding, because with 100% superheroes in attendance, it’d be the most disastrous plot against the Wayne name ever concocted. So, Steph wasn’t worried about that. It was the rest of it---the being a mother, the being married, the being married to Bruce Wayne’s _son_ \---that was driving her a little bit batty. She wanted to go out and kick some crime in the teeth, but Kara had already given her an extended lecture on what she’d do to her if she showed up to her own wedding with a black eye.

So, she did the next best thing: she trained, and she exercised, and she tried her damnedest to sweat her nerves out.

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts, she barely registered it when Damian said, “Your form’s a wreck. While spastic flailing does burn calories, you’d get more out of your training if you did it right.”

Steph was so startled by his sudden appearance, she almost fell off the uneven bars she’d been swinging on. She stuck the landing with her face, then prayed desperately that she wouldn’t bruise. Kara would have her _head_.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in a strip club somewhere with Jay, Colin, Tim, and Dick?” She asked, sitting up and rubbing her cheek. Maybe she’d get away with just a little bit of mat burn. A girl could hope.

“Unfortunately. But they haven’t been able to find me yet.”

“You’re a slippery little devil,” she smirked.

“I just don’t understand how watching nude women gyrate on stage is an essential part of the marriage ritual. It seems counter-intuitive, at least to me.” Damian heaved a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. She could see that he was keeping something back, that he was trying to find an angle of attack to bring something up. His tells were so obvious now that she knew him.

“Well, if you wanted an at-home show, you’re a little late. I’m done practicing for tonight,” she said, getting up and dusting herself off. She’d be sore the next day, but that was the norm for her. What would she do with herself if she got a decent night’s sleep and woke up with no aches or pains? Madness. That wasn’t her life, and it never had been.

“No matter,” he said dismissively, fishing something out of his pocket. It was an oily puddle of black fabric. He tossed it to her. “I have a better idea. Put it on.”

She recognized this particular scrap of silk. Boy, did she ever. Her cheeks heated.

“The blindfold?”

“Yes,” Damian said evenly. “Put it on.”

“Trust exercises? After everything? Seriously, I---”

“I have a schedule to keep, Stephanie. My ‘brothers’ are going to be inflicting a bachelor’s party for me, against my will. I have to leave shortly, so just _do it,”_ he said crabbily. Steph heaved a theatrical sigh, putting the blindfold on. Easier to do that than fight with her soon-to-be-husband. This was clearly a thing with him, so she had to indulge him. She was already the best wife ever.

As soon as she’d knotted the blindfold, he picked her up. Feeling disoriented, she put her arms around his neck and hung on for dear life. She’d seen him bench press five times her weight without breaking much of a sweat, so even blindfolded she didn’t worry about where they were going and what the chances were of him dropping her.

He set her back down without a word, carefully teasing out the knot of the blindfold so that it didn’t catch in her hair. They were in one of the rougher, less-used corners of the cave. There were no overhead lights, so he’d set up a small, hand-held lamp. It cast a buttery-rich glow over the walls and stalagmites.

“Mood lighting,” she said, arching a brow at the lantern. “An interesting touch.”

“Thematically appropriate.”

“I see. And what is the theme?”

"It’s come to my attention that you and I are getting married tomorrow,” Damian said, pocketing the length of black silk. She shot him a _look_.

“You bet we are. And if this is you trying to get out of it, I will break your legs, so help me God.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I have no intention of running away from this commitment. I just...felt that I should tell you that I see the ceremony as almost farcical.”

It surprised her how deeply that hit. Sure, she’d kind of bullied him into the idea, but she had convinced herself that he was as for the idea as she was. Her stomach churned.

“Not loving your tone, D.”

“No,” he said, holding up both hands entreatingly. “I simply mean that a paper certificate means nothing to me. Rings are baubles. What we do tomorrow, we do for the public. They will bear witness to you, Stephanie Brown, taking my name as my wife. I will promise to love you and care for you in sickness and in health, so long as we both shall live. I'll mean it when I say it, but I wanted to---" He searched for the right word, blue eyes staring at her intently. "---prove the strength of my word. Not only as your husband, but as your partner."

That loosened the knot in her chest, if only by a little. It still didn’t explain what they were doing in the dark, primitive corner of the batcave, though.

"You've come a hell of a long way from being the obnoxious little kid who said you couldn't see what good I was to _anyone_ , since I lacked skills and batty vengeance."

"I would have figured out what makes you tick by then if I could've torn my focus away from your magnificent breasts," Damian said with a twitchy little smirk.

"I _knew_ it," Steph laughed, crossing her arms over her (completely awesome) chest.

"Call it a youthful fascination with a woman bizarre enough to wear my father's crest and flash-freeze me by accident."

Her smile spread into a triumphant leer. "I only _said_ it was an accident."

"You dreadful harpy," Damian said, sounding honestly impressed.

"I gave as good as I got, you obnoxious little bitch. Now, were we going to do something romantic here, or are we going to have a fight?"

He snorted, setting down the lamp and turning it off. There was a sharp scratch of a match being struck, illuminating the angles of his face in reds and golds. He lit two white candles, handing one to her, and recognition swelled in her chest.

Oh. _That_ vow.

“Many years ago, Dick Grayson and my father made a pledge to each other, and to the city,” Damian began, in the same tone as a man giving a political speech. He’d thought long and hard about what he wanted to say. He’d practiced. “You and Barbara Gordon made a similar pact, right where we are standing now. The choice to fight for Gotham and pledge myself to her was never really a choice for me. As my father’s son, his burden was my inheritance. So I would---I would like to make my vow here. To you.”

They’d been together long enough that the whole butterflies-in-the-stomach infatuation had matured into something more lasting. But still, every once in a while, he said or did things that made her insides do acrobatics. She’d assumed that when she’d suggested they write their own vows, he’d been ignoring her. But he’d been listening, and he’d taken the idea to a whole other level.

This was the most sacred form of promise he knew how to make.

"I pledge to you, Stephanie Wayne, that you will be my partner until the day I pass the cowl on. You are my partner, my lover, and the mother of my children,” Damian said solemnly, looking down at the dancing lick of flame. “I pledge to honor our partnership on all its levels."

 _Stephanie Wayne._ That one would take some getting used to. And she'd have to have a talk with him about the _plural_ he'd used with child. She wasn't interested in popping out any more babies anytime soon---not after _finally_ slimming back down to pre-baby weight.

"And I pledge to you, Damian Wayne, that I will honor our partnership, even after we get too old and gray to dark knight it up. You are my partner, my lover, and the father of my child---any others pending thorough discussion. Deal?"

Damian tipped the candle, letting the hot wax sizzle into a pool at their feet.

"I accept."

Steph did the same with her candle, sealing their pact.

The oath taken there, in the cave, consummated without witnesses by the light of two spluttering candles, felt realer than the vows they took the next day. It was private, encompassing _all_ of what they were and what their relationship meant.

The public display was infinitely more difficult.

 

*

 

"Grayson, if you don't stop pacing, I will be forced to hamstring you. Don't think that I won't. I’m sure that Todd would be more than happy to take your place as best man."

"I can't handle this!” Dick said, throwing up his hands. He’d been pacing the length of the bathroom for going on fifteen minutes, ranting as Damian had calmly shaved. “I can't. Damian, you're getting _married._ You're a father and you're getting married. I'm getting faint. Tunnel vision. Is this the real world? Pinch me."

"Your dramatics never fail to impress," Damian murmured dryly, running his razor under the faucet. "Can you please take this outside? I'd like to finish shaving and dressing, thank you. As you mentioned, I'm getting married today. I'd like to be presentable."

"You look like a million bucks. Don't worry about that."

"Upsetting,” he drawled, drawing his razor over the last of the shaving cream. “My net worth is considerably higher than one million dollars."

Dick just grinned. He knew Damian well enough to see through the Little Lord Fauntleroy routine. Damn him and his inescapable empathy.

"You're scared out of your mind, aren't you?" His brother asked, blue eyes twinkling bright.

Damian dried off his face, more or less burying it in a towel and not resurfacing.

"I can't believe this is really happening," he mumbled from the terrycloth depths.

He squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "It's happening, big guy. You've already gotten further along the Adult Responsibilities curve than the rest of us. You’ve got an adorable kid and a wife. At twenty-one---and in our crowd---that’s _something.”_

“And everyone assumed I was the least normal individual to wear the Robin uniform.”

“You were and still are,” Dick grinned, then adjusted his tie. He was more than capable of doing it himself, but it was comforting, in an abstract way. Nightwing was worrying himself into a frantic mess, so if getting his OCD out on tie-knotting would help, Damian would allow for the fussing. “It just blows my mind, Little D. When I left, you were a pissed off sixteen year old. And now look at you.”

“Nearly twenty-two, married, and with a child,” he deadpanned. The enormity of who he had become in the last year was daunting, sometimes. “Abnormal decisions for someone in our line of work.”

“Abnormal? Maybe. Still pissed off? Usually. But _you’re_ abnormal, so there you go. You’ve done pretty well with your big decisions. I’m proud of you. I know that Bruce would be, too.”

He tried to not let his feelings show, but the concept of Father being _proud_ of his match and his child made his throat tighten until no words could eke their way out. The idea of him being proud of what he deemed selfish decisions---taking on a partner who emotionally compromised him, bringing a baby into their lives despite the perils of their ‘night job’---was complicated, because it wasn’t the Father he knew. His Bruce had been demanding, remote, and Batman before all else. He’d been positive he would have faulted him for being weak, by jeopardizing the crusade by having a wife and daughter. But, Dick knew his father better than he had, and if he said that he would have been proud, he had to accept that.

“This is what I want,” Damian said finally, after much struggle. “I want Stephanie and Laila, and anything else must take second string. I lost my soul in a bid to be the Batman Father couldn’t be. Now, I’ve become that Batman for entirely different reasons. I don’t regret any of these choices.”

His brother beamed. He couldn’t stop smiling long enough to get words out, it seemed like.

“Yeah,” he said, squeezing his shoulder again, and then, “Yeah, I know. And you shouldn’t. You’re---you grew up to be a good man. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

When Dick manhandled him into a hug, he didn’t fight it.

He didn’t believe in God, and he didn’t believe in luck, and he didn’t believe in the glittering folk creatures that bestowed wishes. But, if he had, he would have been praising the names of every intangible benefactor possible. He hadn’t imagined that he would ever marry, much less with his first partner, his best friend, his _brother_ , as his best man.


	15. Vows: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of three.

"Ughhh," Steph groaned in frustration, flopping backwards on the couch and holding the phone crooked up against her shoulder. "Talk me out of eloping, Tim. Tell me it's a bad idea. I know that it has to be a bad idea, if only because it sounds like such a _good_ idea right now."

"It's a bad idea," Tim assured her, eternally patient. "And you know that you'll regret it if you do. It doesn't have to be big, Steph. Just the family, the League, and whoever else you personally choose to invite. What happened to the Steph Brown that liked getting dressed up?"

"That was twelve years and a pregnancy ago," she said with a snort. "But I do have one thing going for me now: my boobs have gotten huge since I started lactating."

The noise that Tim made on the other end if the line was totally worth the oversharing. She grinned until her cheeks hurt.

"TMI," he sighed, and she suffered a bittersweet little wash of nostalgia. She wondered if he still made the same face when embarrassed---brows pinched, eyes flicked away, smile sheepish, cheekbones pink. She remembered loving that expression, remembered being bold and teasing him just to get that reaction.

"Anyway," she said, brushing that thought aside. "I'm leaving a lot of this up to you and your OCD. I was just going to let people sit wherever they wanted and eat from a buffet."

"If you're going to do this, you might as well do it right," Tim said, and she could hear the rapid tapping of keys in the background. He was probably already making lists and seating arrangements. Nothing would please him more than deciding the best tactical plan for the table settings at the reception. "Have you finished up shopping for the baby?"

Oh yeah, he'd switched over into Extreme Planning Mode. He'd switched over, and there was no turning back now. Her life was going to get _organized._

"Not...yet," she said, her tone carefully bland. "Been kind of wrapped up in everything."

"Steph."

"Hey. Don't you 'Steph' me, mister."

 _"Steph."_

She slid lower into the couch, wriggling into that one still-comfortable position left for her. The only downside was, it was impossible to get out of on her own. She'd just yell for Damian when she wanted to get up; the man liked to feel useful. She hated feeling helpless and restrained by her new limits, but he seemed to think that it was adorable. She hadn't missed his pleased little smirks every time she made grabby hands at him. Protecting her was important to him on a 'me-Tarzan-you-Jane' level, so she caved every once in a while and let him be all primal alpha male. Anyway, relaxing in her one still-comfortable position was worth the shame of having to play the role of very pregnant damsel in distress.

"What am I getting Stephed at for now?"

"When are you due, Steph?" Tim asked, using the tone that meant he was just setting her up for a tut-tut and a bat-chide. Maybe even an _I told you so_ , if she wasn't careful.

Alfred hopped up on the couch next to her with a lilting purr-meow. He rubbed his face against hers, then oozed into whatever space he could find around her stomach. In the early months, he'd been able to drape himself wherever he pleased. He'd laid on top of her belly as it grew, until the baby's progressively stronger kicks had scared the crap out of him. It'd taken her twenty minutes, promises that the baby didn't hate him, and a full can of tuna to coax him out from under the couch.

"You know that I'm due next week," Steph said, scratching under Alfred's chin. "I told you that fifteen minutes ago, Detective."

After a few moments of intense debate, Alfred curled up on her stomach and started purring. Turning the receiver away, she whispered, "Not so loud, big guy. You'll wake her up, and then we're both getting kicked." The cat's purring immediately lowered to a quiet rumble.

"And you know I know you know that you need to have baby related paraphernalia before the baby is born."

"I know, I know, I know. PS, I hate it when you're right. It happens too often. Seriously, you should work on that---give the other kids a chance to be right once in a while."

Another long-suffering sigh. "Don't try to distract me with quips."

Steph gave up, letting her head hit the back of the couch. "Fine. I need to go shopping. Reading you loud and clear."

"I'm not doing anything tomorrow. If---if you wanted company," Tim offered, and she could tell that he was choosing his words with the utmost care. This was a leap of faith for him, landing on thin ground. "With how far along you are, you probably shouldn't be going out on stressful excursions by yourself. I mean, there's---you know, black ice, and---and what if you went into labor, or if there were complications---like last time? And I just---"

It'd been a long time since she'd gotten a call from _this_ Tim. Shy Tim, sweet Tim, thoughtful Tim. The Tim who had been the first person in the world to give a crap about her, the Tim who had stayed with her through it all, the Tim who had bubbled over with hesitant, sloppy joy whenever she'd brushed his hand or pushed up on her toes to kiss him. The Tim that she'd fallen in love with, a hundred years ago and a lifetime removed.

Tim Drake, her very first Boy Wonder.

She hadn't realized how much she'd missed that Tim until that very moment. She hadn't thought that wound could still feel fresh, as old as it was, but she still missed how they’d been when they’d been good. She'd never thought that those would end up being 'the good ol' days'. He’d been her first real confidant, and not even long-ago heartbreak could change that. Blaming it on hormones didn't make her feel any better.

"You've got a point," Steph said, and not without a hint of wryness. She rolled onto her side, tucking the phone against her ear and helping Alfred relocate safely. How many times had she curled up in bed with a calming hand on her belly, a cordless phone to her ear, and a crime fighting Robin on the other end of the line? She’d done it countless times, with two different pregnancies and two different Robins. "It'll be just like old times."

"I'll pick you up around two tomorrow," Tim said, sounding honestly relieved. She had to wonder how long he'd been gearing himself up for this. Knowing him, quite a while. When it came to expressing emotions, he had to brace himself and prepare extensively ahead of time. Steph hung up with a sigh, curling up with her blanket and Alfred and a half dozen pillows.

Things had been much easier when she and D had only been a poorly kept secret. They hadn’t done anything but pretend that nobody's opinion mattered, do whatever the hell they wanted, and never had to deal with all of the relationship issues that had led them to each other.

A swift kick to the bladder made getting up an emergency instead of an idea. Steph groaned.

"D! SOS!"

She started counting. By the time she got to two, she heard bare feet far, far down the hall. By the time she got to five, the footsteps had turned into a run. By the time she got to seven, it'd turned into a negligent walk again. Damian liked to pretend that her yelling wasn't enough to get him out of bed and running for her, and she let him pretend that. He had an image to maintain.

“Is this an Oreo emergency?” He called from down the hall.

“Nah, I just made the mistake of laying down.”

"We need to decide on a better distress signal," he said grouchily, leaning over the back of the couch. He was half asleep, the left side of his face creased from the sheets. "I would rather not be called to high alarm every time you're defeated by gravity, woman."

"Gravity and I have always had a rocky relationship," Steph grouched back, moving Alfred and then holding out her hands expectantly. "It's my nemesis. As my partner, it's your duty to help me in my tireless battle against the tyranny of gravity."

"Such demands," Damian drawled, carefully helping her up. Not for the first time, she was glad that even at her most pregnant---and him at his weakest---he could easily lug her around.

"Well, if you want to be the pregnant one, I'm all for taking over as the supportive partner. Until then, _I'm_ doing the heavy lifting, so _you're_ going to put up with all my completely reasonable demands---including, but not limited to, helping me fight gravity."

"You're giving me more sass than usual," he calmly pointed out, attempting to flatten his unruly hair. He hadn't figured out yet that she liked him freshly rolled out of bed just as much as she liked him dressed to the nines and radiating perfection from every angle. In fact, she might have liked him a little bit _more_ when he let his imperfections show. He didn't let just anyone see him like that. "The talk with Drake went well, then?"

"Mm, it went," Steph said, bracing her hands at the small of her back and arching. "He's helping me shop for baby-things. I'm going to take the opportunity to bludgeon the feelings out of him."

"Shopping," he repeated incredulously, an eyebrow raised. "Followed by an emotional shakedown. And you wonder why you don't get asked out often."

"Tim needs it. He's doing that thing he does when he's emotionally constipated. He's obsessively organizing everything around him---case in point, _our wedding_ \---so I'm guessing he has a problem that deals with public displays of emotion. He'll probably come out with it soon, but doesn't want to steal our thunder. Why do relationships and announcements get so complicated when money and celebrities are involved?"

"I don't want Drake planning our wedding," Damian said, nimbly avoiding any and all conversation topics he didn't feel like addressing.

"The things you choose to hear are so endearingly specific," she said, and pinched his cheek.

"I choose to ignore it when you analyze everyday conversations in order to find hidden emotional weaknesses to exploit," he explained, draping a loose arm around her waist. "It's how I find the peace to sleep at night."

"Because I'm Batwoman,” Steph said in a mock-deep-and-gravelly Batvoice. “And you never know when I'll strike. Inevitably, I'll make you _feel things."_

"The greatest weakness of any costumed vigilante," Damian said somberly, nodding.

She wasn't completely sure if he was being sarcastic or not.

 

*

 

And she ended up being right, too. Being with Tim was worryingly like old times.

Steph had forgotten her gloves, so Tim gave her his and then held her hand for good measure. He hovered, close enough to reach out for her whenever they crossed slick spots in the sidewalk.

Her fingers hadn't forgotten what it was like to be tangled up with his.

Tim vibrated with the same frantic questions that he'd fussed over at age fourteen: was it okay that they were together, what would he do if something happened to her, was it okay to touch her belly, what would he do if something happened to the baby, was it okay to want to be with her when she was like this? Back then, the questions had been relatively simple. Back then, she'd told herself that someday, she'd get to do it all over right---she'd get to have a baby, _his_ baby, and keep it. She'd truly believed in that happily ever after. But once again, she was carrying another man's baby, and he was the one holding her hand and helping her prepare.

"I can't believe that you put this off until the last minute," Tim said, his sigh hanging in a disappointed fluffy huff in the January air. "You're due anytime, but you haven't finished her nursery. If you needed help, you should have asked."

Oh, Tim. Neurotic, worried, loving Tim. He was going to worry himself into an ulcer by the end of the day. She had to wonder what it was that had scared this old Tim out of hiding---if it was the familiarity of the situation, or if there was something else bringing on the encore of Tim-in-love Tim.

"I haven't had the energy, and you know how Damian's been."

Tim snorted. "Basically catatonic."

 _"Healing,"_ she corrected, frowning. "He's been healing. So, between actually _having_ this baby and making casual jabs at wedding planning, I haven't had the time or the energy to do more than the basics."

"Yeah, well," Tim shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. He offered her a timid grin. All signs were pointing to this being some kind of peace offering. "We're fixing that today. One way or another, I'll make sure it's handled."

"My hero," Steph said, returning his grin and backing it with a billion watts. "I trust you with everything but picking out clothes."

"What? There's nothing wrong with what I wear."

Stephanie gave him a _look._ Tim had a very singular taste in winter hats.

"You poor, deluded creature," she said, looping her arm with his. "I'd pity you more, but I have to look at you and endure your fashion choices. For future reference, wearing a touk with a pompom on it stops being okay past age twelve. Don’t wear hats, Tim. For you, hathair is a crime. You don’t smother hair like yours. You cherish it."

"Is this going to turn into a fashion makeover trip?" He asked, brow wrinkling with serious thought. "Because that might be more than I can handle."

"Sweetie, not even an 80s shopping montage set to Survivor could save you now. I gave up on fixing you a long time ago."

They stopped at a crosswalk, and Steph took the opportunity to stretch and massage the small of her back. Her spine gave a satisfying pop, a momentary relief from the pressure.

"You holding up okay?" Tim asked, running a hand over the curve of her stomach. His fingers were hard and flushed pink from cold, his touch so light she could barely feel it.

"I'm fine. Tired and super ready to have this baby, but otherwise fine."

"I'm happy for you, Steph,” he said, blue eyes boyscout-earnest. “Seriously. I can't remember the last time I saw you look like this."

"Pregnant?" She laughed, which made him splutter. "The last time you saw me like this was about fifteen years ago, give or take. How time flies, right?"

"No, I mean that you look…" Tim's nose scrunched as he pulled a face, trying to make sense of his thoughts. She gave him an A for effort. "…happy. Which sounds corny as hell, I know, but you do. And it's bizarre, because you're _marrying Damian."_

"There's nothing wrong with marrying Damian," she said, punching his upper-arm hard enough to make him wince. Steph didn't need his critical opinion talking sense into her; she'd finally managed to convince herself that she was fine with the idea of getting married, much less getting married to a Wayne.

"I could give you a ten page annotated list of things that are wrong with marrying Damian," Tim countered, and she could tell that he was gearing up for a rant. The light changed and they crossed the street, Tim still rubbing the arm she’d punched. "Starting off, this will make you my sister-in-law. Have you realized that? He's barely an adult---"

"He's legal. That's good enough for me."

"---and got you pregnant---"

"It takes two to tango, and I put in as much work as he did in getting me pregnant."

"---but he makes you happy, and I can't argue the evidence." After a beat, he added, "And can we not ruin this moment by discussing his role in getting you pregnant? There are just some things I don't want to imagine."

"Someday," she said, her eyes bright with amusement. "You're going to have to accept that I'm having all kinds of kinky adult sex with him."

"Can today not be that day?" Tim begged with the pink-cheeked mortification of yesteryear.

"I am happy," Steph laughed, leaning into him. Tim was one of the few people she knew who was the same height as she was, so there was something comfortably normal about him. He'd never made her feel loomed-over. "He's adult enough for me, and I'm kind of looking forward to doing this motherhood thing now that I've graduated past the drivers' permit stage of my life. I think I'm finally ready for it."

"You're going to be a great mom," Tim smiled, squeezing her hand. "Even if you're going to be raising Damian at the same time."

"Is there an age gap between him and me?" she demanded, mock horrified. "Really? I never noticed! Nobody has _ever_ brought that up. Oh no, what are the neighbors going to think of us?"

Tim rolled his eyes. "Hi-lar-ious. Do you ever look at him and go 'you are _not_ the one that I thought I was going to end up with'?"

Well, of course she did. She did, because the one she thought she was going to end up with was currently holding her hand and filling the role of supportive friend. It was an interesting question, though, because it implied _things_. She gave him a good, thorough look, and saw all the old signs. There was color in his face, a looseness in the way he held himself, a smile that hovered just under the surface.

He didn't have to dig to find something that made him effortlessly happy. That was new.

"Only every time he opens his mouth." When he didn't follow that with a cutting observation about how much Damian sucked, she _knew_ he had it bad. "But that’s kind of what sold me on the idea that I might actually love the jerk. I can’t imagine why I’m with him, but I can’t imagine a life without him. I could have been anyone, with anyone, but I like who I am when I’m with him. I’m pretty sure that’s love. So, when are you going to tell me?"

Tim---precious, shy, _Tim-in-love_ Tim---ducked his head and reddened.

"Tell you what?"

"Whatever it is that you've been trying to nut up and tell me," she smirked, jabbing him with a well-timed elbow. "You only go into control mode if you're worried about something, and you're doing your best to control all aspects of my life, so I'm guessing something is up with you on the romantic and/or emotional front. Stop me when I stop being right."

"One of these days, I'll figure out how you're able to do that."

"It's my thing," Steph said, smug. "Everybat has their thing, and this is mine. Now spill. If anyone deserves details, it's me. And if you try to keep details away from me, know that I will viciously hunt them down until I know everything. You're better off just telling me."

"It's…Kon," Tim mumbled. Steph cupped a hand around her ear, tilting her chin up and smiling innocently.

"I can't heaaaaaar yoooooou," she chirped. Tim reddened to the tips of his ears.

"Well, I mean, Kon _and_ me, which is---" He gestured with his free hand, struggling for words. "---it is. A thing. That we are."

"In translation: you and Kon have been making goo-goo eyes at each other for years, and now you've finally come to terms with yourself well enough to shout it from the rooftops," Steph said, swinging his arm with hers. "Goo-goo eyes are in progress, and anything else that does or doesn't happen is your own business, because you are an adult."

Tim sighed raggedly, like a weight had been lifted from him. Ah, the power of simple acceptance. To most families, acceptance was implied. To them, it was a relief and a surprise whenever they were accepted for whoever it was they were. Steph had made it her mission early on to accept the snot out of anyone and everyone in her life.

"Yes," Tim nodded. "That. All of that."

"Good boy," she said, and meant it. "Took you long enough."

"I’m not gay," he said quickly, like he was anticipating that to be her next question. “I do like girls. I’ve loved girls. I---you---”

Steph cut that thought off. She didn’t want to hear how he’d finish it, because it’d be its own kind of bruise. He was back to being the Tim she’d loved, because he was Tim-in-love. It was safe to fall back into the good times now, but only because they’d found their unexpected someone elses.

"Tim. _Timster._ I know. We already established that this is my thing, right? Besides," she smiled, squeezing his hand back. "You're happy, and I haven't seen you like this in a long time. The rest doesn’t matter."

"Yeah," he said, and he sounded a little bit surprised himself. "I am happy."

"Good boy," Steph said, patting his arm. "And I'll break the news to Damian so that you won't have to. _That_ is how great a friend I am."

"And now," Tim said, laughing. "I'm _really_ happy."

 

*

 

The day of the wedding dawned rosy and sweet. Steph was up with the birds, too nervous and excited to sleep in, for once. When Laila fussed awake for her five am feeding, she didn’t go back to bed like she usually did. She took a long shower, then sat up on the roof with Cass for a good hour. Damian hadn’t stumbled into bed after the bachelor party, but that hadn’t worried her. He was with Robins One through Three, and at least Tim could be trusted to blow the fun police whistle if things got out of hand.

She dried her hair and let Kara pin and curl and generally beatify the bejeezus out of her, unworried.

She dealt with the catering people, the set up, and organized the decorating task force, unworried.

But then Robins One and Two showed up, without Robin Five. And Stephanie started to worry.

“So,” Dick said, hands on his hips. He was jittering with nervous energy, fingers tapping, unable to keep still despite making an obvious effort to do so. He crossed his arms over his chest, took a deep breath, dropped his arms, and then put his hands back on his hips. Dick Grayson had four limbs and he didn’t know what to do with any of them. “So, we have a problem. A slight problem. A fixable problem! But still a problem that is currently problematic. I thought that you should know.”

“A problem,” Steph repeated flatly. Dick started pacing, laughing with a faint strain of hysteria.

“Well, you’re supposed to get married today, and to have a wedding there needs to be a bride and groom. And you’re the bride, so on that front we are _completely_ covered. All bride-related needs and functions are being taken care of, which is great.” He gave her a smile that would have dazzled the socks off her at any other time. “You look gorgeous, by the way.”

“Dick,” Steph said, fighting to keep her inside voice an inside voice. She would not be distracted by compliments or the smiles of stupidly handsome men---not when his body language was throwing up every red flag. “What’s the problem?”

“I--- _Jason_ \---” Dick gave Jason a helpless look. The glare he shot back made it clear that pinning the blame on him was not an option. He rubbed the back of his neck. “--- _we_ misplaced the groom. Momentarily. But Tim’s going to find him, and everything is going to be fine. Tim is _great_ at finding things. He found Batman; he could find anything. He’s our designated finder, and he’s on the case. I’m a hundred percent positive that he’ll find Damian before the wedding ceremony. We’re not even sure that he was actually kidnapped.”

“A kidnapped former Robin?” Jason said, sounding bored. “Shit, it must be a day ending in ‘y’.”

That was too much for Dick. He rounded on Jason, gesticulating wildly.

“He’s not ten years old anymore! He doesn’t _get_ kidnapped---not without a struggle. Whoever took him scooped him without any signs of a fight. Something is going on, and I’ve had it up to _here_ with your levels of not-helping! This is serious!”

“What do you want me to do, Mother Hen? Put up posters? Lost: one self-important asshole. Answers to Damian, Batman, and ‘you bastard’. If found, tell him to get to his wedding ceremony before his girl kicks his teeth in. Reward...” Jason pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, thumbing through the bills. “...I’ve got a five and a twenty. I’ll kick in the five to the reward pot, but I’m not coughing up a full twenty. The little shit’ll show up sooner or later, and I’m not made of money here.”

“Dammit, Jay!” Dick swore, red creeping into his face. “You’re _not helping!”_

“When am I ever the go-to guy for helping? When did that become my thing? Because it’s not my thing. My thing is shooting people.”

“Hey!” Steph snapped her fingers until she got their attention. “Let’s dial down the testosterone for two seconds here, gentlemen. Damian is missing---probably kidnapped. If someone got the drop on him, they’re either dealing with the worst kidnappee in the history of everything, or they’re good enough that we should be worried about D’s safety. What is the last thing you remember from last night?”

“Shots,” said Jason.

“Lots of shots,” Dick agreed.

"In our defense, Damian wouldn't go in the strip club until we got him drunk."

Steph pulled in a hard, angry breath. This was exactly what she’d been worried about. Formal events were red letter days for rogues, but she hadn’t thought that _Damian_ would be the one to get kidnapped.

“And any leads?”

“We know that whoever got him managed to get him out of the manor without a visible struggle,” Dick said, his expression pinched. He was worried, and he wore it obviously. He hadn’t been back in their life for very long, so separation was a big deal for him. Fate was too good at dangling niceties and then slapping them with irony.

“And he’s not wearing pants,” Jason said, as blasé as Dick was frantic.

“And the cat is also missing,” he sighed heavily, face in his hands. “They stole the Batman, and his little cat, too.”

“Kidnapping Damian I get,” Steph said, flopping down into a chair with a frustrated groan. “But who kidnaps a guy _and_ his cat? That’s just insulting.”

“We’re dealing with a sick individual here,” Jason said with a sagacious nod. “Who knows what they’re capable of?”

If it hadn’t taken the better part of an hour to do her hair up pretty, she would have kicked his ass on principle. But sitting through hair and makeup again was just not an acceptable option.

“Find him,” she said, mouth drawn into a fierce frown. “Before shooting people becomes my thing. Appropriate Kara from the decoration committee and find him before the guests start arriving. I _know_ he didn’t leave by choice.”

Because he couldn’t. There was no way, not after the oath he’d sworn to her the night before.

“We’ll find him,” Dick assured her, squeezing her shoulder. “Don’t worry.”

“What he said. I mean, we’ve got Tim on the case,” Jason added, giving her a private smirk. “You know that the mystery always gets cracked wide open once Velma starts tallying up the clues. We’ll nab the alien and see if Tim is pre-or-post-jinkies.”

“Let’s split up, gang,” said Dick, straight faced and leaderly. “C’mon, Daphne.”

“Fuck you,” Jason grumbled, following Dick out. “I’m not even a ginger anymore, _Fred.”_

She spent the next fifteen minutes juggling Damian-related worry with wondering what member of the Gang he’d be. Steph settled on Scrappy Doo and felt worse about the whole situation, not better.

This wasn’t how she’d imagined her wedding day. Everything was going wrong, and she hadn’t even finished getting dressed. The Brown luck was firing up for one last huzzah before she dropped that name and became Mrs. Wayne.

Steph really, really hoped that becoming Mrs. Wayne was still in the cards.

 

*

 

Damian woke up with a blinding hangover, handcuffed to the cat and missing his pants. It wasn’t the best way he’d woken up, but it certainly wasn’t the worst. Mostly, it was inconvenient. He pieced his situation together in order: the cat woke him up by growling and biting his hand, the hangover soured the back of his throat and drummed at his temples even before he opened his eyes, and the lack of pants was sort of the uncomfortable cherry on the top of the unfortunate sundae.

Somehow, it was Dick’s fault. Somehow. Situations like this one had stopped happening when Grayson had been absent in his life. As inconvenient as it was, he still couldn’t find it in himself to be too upset. In the grand scheme of things, it was better to have his brother and his stupid pranks than not have him at all.

“Stop that,” he growled at Alfred, who was actively mauling him. The cat hugged his arm with his front paws, claws drawn and ears flattened. The other end of the handcuffs had been looped in his collar, and he wasn’t happy about it. “If you’ll stop that for two seconds, I’ll get us out of this. Calm down, you twice-damned harlot.”

Alfred grumble-hissed a reply, biting his fingers with needle-sharp teeth. He could at least find comfort in the fact that his irritation hadn’t triggered his transformation into an ungodly abomination of man and feline---if he was just a pissed-off cat, Laila and Stephanie were safe, wherever they were.

And that begged the question of where _he_ was. The handcuffs were not standard police issue, but locks had stopped being a challenge for him by the time he was six. They usually gave him no trouble, but he usually wasn’t tethered to an angry cat. He worked on the lock and took quick glances at his surroundings.

It was a studio apartment, with drapes but no windows. The floors were honeyed hardwood---real wood, not laminate---and the décor was tastefully spartan. It was ageless, it was modern, it was _Mother._

The door opened with the hiss-click of a keyless entry system. Damian’s brain processed that---it probably had a scrolling code setup and locked from both sides, which meant that he would either have to disable the system or hack it if he wanted to get free; locks were always easier when they were pins and tumblers instead of prints and codes---instead of the woman who walked through the door. It was easier to keep his focus there, to keep his head sharp, instead of falling to the weak, little-boy nerves that she still stirred up in him.

“Hello, Mother,” Damian muttered, jimmying the lock as Alfred growled and dug into his arm with his back claws. He gnawed on any fingers that weren’t busy with picking the handcuffs, desperate to be free and impatient with his master’s progress. “Please give me a moment to deal with this animal.”

“Of course,” Talia said demurely, taking a seat on the impeccably carved, gilded fauteuil across from him. His mother had barely changed since the last time he’d seen her, as impervious to the years as any of their blood. Her age was only belied by the neat slash of white at her left temple, the creases at the corners of her mouth. She would always be something _other_ to him: more than a mother, more than a woman, more than a mere mortal.

He’d never loved her the way most sons love their mothers, but he respected her. It was impossible not to respect Talia al Ghul.

The lock popped open, and Alfred scrambled to the other end of the couch. He frantically groomed himself, shooting Damian dirty looks the whole time. If his mother hadn’t been watching, he would have given him _such_ a talking to. Damian loosely rubbed his wrist, frowning.

“I take it that you heard about the wedding,” he said, because he had neither the time nor the desire to beat about the bush. He didn’t know how long he’d been passed out---and couldn’t judge the time, since there were no clocks or windows---but the ceremony was either quickly approaching or already in progress. Stephanie wouldn’t forgive him if he stood her up at the altar, even unintentionally. With them, _I was kidnapped_ was never an acceptable excuse.

“Among other things,” Talia said, and gestured to Alfred with coaxing fingers.

The familiar looked at his master, looked at her, and padded over to her with a flick of his tail. He politely lifted his chin to be scratched, purring enthusiastically.

No creature punished the way a cat punished.

“Laila?” Damian asked, and not even _his_ training could keep the waver out of his voice.

He hadn’t told his mother about Stephanie and the baby. Not formally, like he should have. Their lines of communication were brief and rare to begin with, and he hadn’t wanted to advertise his precious things lest they become easy targets. She’d only confronted him once, shortly after the charity ball debacle that’d ended with both Stephanie’s pregnancy and their engagement being made public.

They’d argued. It’d been messy. She hadn’t called again.

But now, on his wedding day, she’d pulled him away to have a few more choice words. Even if he hadn’t been hung over, Damian’s stomach would have been churning with acid.

“Yes. I’ve heard about your marriage to Stephanie Brown, as well as the child she has already given you. You’ve had an eventful year, _habibi.”_

 _Don’t call me that_ hung on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t unclench his teeth to let it go.

“I have,” he agreed, forcibly calm. “And it has been a good year.”

“Has it?” Talia asked, eyebrows arched. “Is this what you hoped to gain when you left me? Is this what you wanted?”

Alfred abruptly lost all interest in her petting, wriggling away. He hopped up on Damian’s shoulders, his tail curled around his neck. The beast was endearingly possessive, he gave him that.

“What is the purpose of this?” He demanded, eyes narrowed. “What do you want from me, Mother?”

“An answer to my question,” she said, unruffled and unreadable. “Was the grass greener on the other side?”

It felt like a trick. It felt like the set-up to an _I told you so_. It felt like the truth would be a noose.

“Is this what I imagined when I was ten years old and cutting my teeth on rebellion?” Damian said, catching his mother’s cool gaze and not looking away. “No. Of course it isn’t what I imagined. I have been treated as an oddity and animal, a monster to be feared or a tool to be used. My father never understood me. Until this last year, the civilian police force of the city I protect was out for my blood.”

“And now,” she said, nodding. “You’re marrying the first woman you got with child, out of some misplaced sense of propriety that _I_ did not instill in you. You have become the Batman, but not the Batman you were raised to be. Your father did you no favors. If you wish to leave that behind and be free, I can arrange for it. You could be more, Damian. So much more than _this.”_

So that was the game. She was giving him an offer, a way _out_ of his father’s shadow and the weight of the responsibilities he now shouldered. He would have been furious, but she seemed sincere. It was almost as if she had been letting him play his game and be headstrong, but was just checking to see if he’d had enough of this life and was willing to pack up and come back to her.

If it hadn’t been so wrong, it would have been touching.

“No, Mother,” Damian said quietly, firmly. “I am enough.”

“Damian,” she said, dropping her frustration into a long-suffering sigh. “Be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable,” he said, getting up. If she wouldn’t let him go willingly, he would have to improvise. His mother was not someone he enjoyed fighting---especially in unarmed combat, without pants and partnered with a cat that would undoubtedly try to get involved---but he had a wedding to attend. “Because I don’t desire to be anything more than this. What _is_ more? More murderous? More violent? More efficient? More ruthless?”

Talia’s lips thinned, but she said nothing.

“All my life, I wanted that elusive more. I fought for it. Killed for it. Bled for it. But I could never define it. I never knew when I would be enough for you and father. I sold my soul. Did you know that? I brokered a deal with the devil himself to be _more.”_

“I taught you better than that,” she said sharply---so sharply, he knew that she hadn’t known about the deal until that moment. The truth had never left his circle of trust. The family that he had chosen kept his secrets.

“You did,” he agreed, stroking Alfred’s back absentmindedly. “But you also taught me that any means could be justified if the end was important enough. My existence is proof of that, isn’t it?”

She’d done whatever was necessary to have the son of the man she loved, even when that meant stripping him of consent. Still, Talia said nothing.

“I realize that it looks like my hand has been forced, that I am marrying Stephanie to save face, but this _is_ the life I have chosen. I have brothers who support and accept me. I have a partner who has never required me to be more than who I already am. I have a family,” Damian said, shoulders squared. “I am content, Mother.”

“Frankly, I’m _disappointed,”_ an eerily familiar voice drawled. There was a boy in the doorway, one whose face usually only looked back at him from old photographs. He had black hair and blue eyes, his skin dark enough to prompt demeaning food comparisons---coffee with cream, honey, almond---and his sneer-scowl was something Damian had thought uniquely his. “I was told that you were the superior son, the golden boy that Mother pines for. You are disgraceful, brother. You are a maudlin, nattering fool, and I am disappointed.”

“Gideon,” Talia said, looking pointedly at the boy, his brother, his _clone._ “I told you to stay.”

“And any other day, Mother, I would have listened to you,” Gideon said, still hanging in the doorway despite his bold words. “But I’ve always wanted to see my brother in the flesh, and this very well may be my only opportunity to do so. You have been so dedicated to keeping us apart, after all. Is it because you thought I would be enticed by _this_ ,” he swept a hand at Damian. “Moronic, half-dressed man-child with a cat? You should have known better. Truly, my pride has been maligned.”

Damian smirked. “You do it, too.”

“And now he has ceased to make any sense at all,” Gideon huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“The way you speak, little brother,” Damian said, though the words _little brother_ felt odd in his mouth. He had always been the youngest of the clan, the last Robin that Bruce Wayne had passed judgment on. “It may fool others, but it doesn’t fool me. You exercise your vocabulary and run your mouth in order to seem more mature. You feel the need to prove your intelligence, to make it exceedingly clear that you are a superior beast. I used to be that way. I chose to surround myself with people who did not demand posturing.” His smile widened. “And it is freeing.”

Gideon flinched like he’d been physically hit. He scowled at him, then their mother, then pushed the door open again.

“You’re still marrying a bovine of an American woman,” he said over his shoulder, a sullen parting shot. “She is fat and you are stupid.”

If he’d been anywhere near as trying at ten years old, Damian wondered how Grayson had endured him. The fact that he’d endured him when he was ten was reason enough for him to endure Grayson’s various quirks now and forever.

“Gideon is charming,” Damian said, utterly deadpan. “I promise that I will not actively project my bad influence upon him, if ever we meet again.”

“He is still learning.”

“Yes,” he said, and felt a sick little twist of sympathy for the boy. “He is.”

Only time would tell if he’d grow up to embrace the things that Damian venerated, or if there would be a day in the near future where he would have to keep his brother from killing him. There would be no middle ground. With the League, deserters were not allowed to live in peace. Deserters were not allowed to live at all.

But he knew that when that day came, he would not be defending his maudlin disappointment of a life all alone.

“You’ve grown so much, _habibi,”_ she said, adjusting the collar of his shirt. The quiet pride in her voice stopped him from telling her not to call him that. “You look like your father.”

“Yes, well,” he said, fumbling for words. He was taller than her, bigger than her, but the Mother of his memories had seemed like the Colossus of Rhodes. Vast. Iconic. Something to be worshipped under the guise of love. And he had, too. He’d invoked the names of his parents like gods. “Genetics. And age. I will be twenty-two soon.”

“I know. You are my son,” Talia murmured, touching his cheek. It was one of her few maternal gestures, rare and possessive. “Nothing can change that. Regardless of where we stand or who we ally ourselves with, that fact will always remain. I do not have to agree with your choices to be proud that you have made them and stand by them. I wanted you to find a life where you could be content, Damian. And I knew that it would not be a life that included your grandfather. You were too brave, too strong, to be a puppet. That’s all I wanted for you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know if he could say anything at all.

It’d been easier to believe that he’d been pushed away for being unwanted. Knowing that she had pushed him away to protect him tipped all that he’d known on its ear. He’d braced himself to be a worthy adversary, to be denounced, to defend his choices and his family. Now, he didn’t know where he stood with her.

But he was her son, and he would always be her son.

“Yes, Mother,” Damian whispered, head bowed. She kissed his forehead, her lips cool and dry.

“Good. Now go home and make yourself presentable. You have three hours until the ceremony begins.” She drew away, chin raised. “I’m glad that we had this talk.”

It wasn’t an implicit blessing, but it was enough.

 

*

 

“Damian’s back. He had the cat with him, but no pants. I’m still waiting for an explanation on _that_. But more importantly, where are you guys?” Steph demanded, her voice shrill on the other end of the line. She didn’t get that way often, so Tim floundered for an appropriate response. He could lie to Batman, but that was because Batman hadn’t scared him. He’d seen Steph do _things_ in heels when she was angry, terrible things, and he didn’t want to take any chances.

Jason plucked the phone from his hands. “Jail,” he said cheerfully. Tim could hear Steph’s answering shriek of _”JAIL?”_ from a foot away.

Dick wrestled the phone away from Jason, swooping in for some much-needed damage control.

“Steph,” Dick said, his tone placating. “Steffers. Take a deep breath for me. There was a...”

“Snafu,” Tim supplied.

“Snafu. We thought we had a lead on D, but---”

“But the gang of teenagers in chainmail turned out to be LARPers,” Jason snorted, like it was funny.

But it wasn’t funny. Tim had seen the pants-crapping fear in the eyes of all those poor kids and had backpedaled. Retracing their steps through a bar and two strip clubs had given them what they’d _thought_ was a lead on a historically themed gang. In reality, it’d been their desperation vs. a gaggle of nerds bearing PVC-pipe lances and pool noodle flails.

Tim wanted to blame it all on his migraine. He wanted to blame his hangover, take some painkillers, and pretend that he hadn’t stood in mute horror as Jason accosted the LARPers with a yell of “FORSOOTH MY ASS, FUCKERS!”

Jason hadn’t heard of LARPing. Jason probably didn’t know what forsooth meant.

It’d been bad. It’d been very bad.

“We’ll be out of here in twenty minutes, tops. Damian’s okay, I’m sure you still look amazing, and technically, the wedding can go on without the groomsmen. Everything is going to be fine. Breathe. Please breathe. We’ll see you soon. Bye.”

Dick very, very carefully hung the phone back up on the hook, because Steph had started swearing and it didn’t seem like she was going to come up for air anytime soon.

“That was our one call,” Tim said flatly in the ensuing awkward silence. He leaned his elbows on his knees, his fingers knotted in his hair. “I was supposed to ask her about _bail.”_

“That was _your_ call, Tim,” Commissioner Gordon corrected, her voice warm with amusement.

“I called her,” Dick said, pointing to Babs. He looked very proud of himself.

“He called me, and for some reason I actually picked up,” she said, shaking her head. “And while I am usually a stickler for the rules, I think that I can expedite the release process this one time. You have a wedding to attend.”

Jason held up a hand to Tim, obviously feeling a need to high-five. Tim just stared at him woodenly.

“You’re gonna leave me hanging? Really? Well, fuck you too, Velma.”

 _”Velma?”_

“If you could expedite the expedited process, that would be really great right now,” Dick said, a firm hand clapped on both of their shoulders. “Because I want to get through today without any more kidnappings or death threats. I know that is asking for a lot, but dammit this is supposed to be their special day.”

In their family, special had too many meanings.


	16. Look at Your Bat, Now Look at Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "Vows: Part Three".

It was over a year after their breakup before they were both in any shape to patrol together. Between Steph's pregnancy and Damian's slow recovery, Batman and Batwoman were glaringly absent from Gotham. Damian patrolled lightly, but there wasn't anyone around to convincingly wear Steph's uniform when she wasn't able to. There were rumors that she'd died, Gotham predictably buzzing with fledgling urban legends.

 _That_ was what prompted Loveless to come after Batman. He'd never dealt with a villain so emotionally invested in _his_ partner before. Damian hadn't known how to react, and that split-second hesitance had been all that Harley needed to get some painful cuts in. He could have handled the situation himself, but he didn't mind being saved, for once---not when the sight of Batwoman dropping from the rooftop gave him such a profound rush of pride.

She'd taken care of Loveless, who'd cried and babbled about being so happy to see her. The pitiable woman didn't fight going back to Arkham. The Asylum had been the only reliable companion in her life, and she knew that she had the money and influence to get back out when she felt like it. The cycles spun forever, leaving new marks each time.

Slow, natural healing---and the scars that it left---was something that Damian struggled with. Their routine had changed; instead of coming back from patrol, washing off, dressing Steph's wounds, and then rolling into bed, they washed up, dressed each others' wounds, took the baby from Dick for a four a.m. feeding, and then fell into bed.

Steph made the process more bearable, as per usual. She was a good nurse, which she claimed was fifty percent her mother's doing and fifty percent getting good at patching herself up thanks to regularly having the stuffing knocked out of her. He didn't mind having her stitch him up, but he didn't like that he had to be cared for to begin with. It wasn't easy to step down from demigodhood.

"I used to have scars," he said, tone thoughtful, as she slapped band-aids on anything not stitch-worthy. "Many. More from various surgeries than injuries sustained in battle. After I made the deal, they faded."

"I'd wondered," she said, pushing her goggles up to tangle in her hair. "But who was I to question superior genetics?"

He huffed a sigh. It wasn't a question of vanity, really. What bothered him was not the aesthetics of scarring, but the fact that they were a visible reminder of times that he'd screwed up.

Damian didn't like being reminded of his mistakes. They were rarely small mistakes.

"I simply have to resign myself to once again bearing the various disfigurements that come with the cowl," he said, trying for light sarcasm.

 _Disfigurement_ hadn't been the right word to use. Her reaction was visceral, and why wouldn't it be? She had strata of scars, fanned layers gained from spending half of her life as a vigilante.

"I didn't mean---" Damian backpedaled quickly. He _knew_ she was self-conscious about her skin. He knew better. Their first failed date had given him her painful perspective.

She smiled, but it wasn't a _I-really-want-to-bite-you_ smile. It was wry, one of her _I'm-letting-that-slide-but-I'm-not-happy_ smiles.

"Newsflash, sweetie. You've always been the pretty one in this relationship. The scars make you ruggedly handsome," Steph slowly pulled down the zipper of her suit, baring the swell of her breasts. Her skin was winter-pale, so her scars were more obvious than usual. The deeper ones were shiny-smooth and purplish, edged by the pinprick points where stitches had been. "Like me. Look at all this ruggedness. Jealous much?"

With his thumb, Damian traced a scar that meandered from her collarbone to the curve of her neck.

"Meth lab explosion. Lots of glass. Little Miss Spoiler learned a valuable lesson about having exit strategies more sophisticated than _run like hell."_

A lesson that she rarely applied in the field, but he wouldn't pick that fight, not after the earlier flub. He found another beaded-up scar to follow with his fingertips. This one sketched down her ribs, so he had to unzip her suit a little further. She hummed an appreciative little note.

"Training accident. Zigged when I should've zagged, and you know your dad never used dull weapons. Robin learned how to zip better than Tim the Terrific."

He slid her suit from one shoulder. There was a gouge across her biceps.

"Power drill," she said with a high, hollow laugh. Nothing else.

Damian kissed the rose of mottled tissue on her shoulder. It was a gunshot wound, one that exited on her back. He already knew what lesson she'd learned there.

"I remember how I got most of my scars," Steph said, hands on his hips and fingers curled into the waistband of his shorts. She gingerly touched the freshly stitched line that climbed up his ribcage. "And I learned from them---even if the lesson was just _duck, stupid._ And now, my ruggedly handsome man, you've got some of your own. This one will go down as 'Batman learned that saving wifey is harder when he has to worry about not getting killed. But it's still worth it, because Batman likes his partner.' Isn't that so, chum?"

"More or less," Damian agreed diplomatically. She punched him in an already-violet bruise on his stomach. He wheezed. "Excuse me. Yes, wife, you are completely right. Long have I yearned to be as ruggedly handsome as you. Now that I'm once again a mere mortal man, I hope to bear my scars with half your pride and grace."

"Now you're just being a dick," she said with a _you-make-me-happy_ smile, and dragged him down for a kiss.


	17. Something About a Girl in a Robin Suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "Look at Your Bat, Now Look at Me."

It was strange, being five years closer to Dick's age than he should have been---it put them at an almost equal footing, licking up the gap that had existed between them before his disappearance. Time hadn't touched him when he'd been in Tibet, but the rest of the world had soldiered nobly on. His return was a relief that Damian couldn't put into words. It was what got him to sleep at night, calming him down enough to allow him a handful of hours of rest. He hadn't wanted to push Stephanie toward resuming her role as Batwoman before she was ready, but Gotham needed more than one Bat patrolling the streets at night.

Dick went back to Nightwing, because one man pretending to be Bruce Wayne was more than enough. Though Grayson had been Batman nearly the entire time he'd known the man, the mantle had never really fit him. Nightwing was better, more natural---all him, instead of a role that he took when he emerged from the curtain and dropped onto Gotham's main stage.

Having his old partner, his _brother_ , back was an endless well of relief...as well as an annoyance, at times.

"I'm just saying," Dick said, clapping his hands together to evenly distribute the chalk dust between his palms. He leapt, twisting on the uneven bars with a mindless ease that most leant to walking. "It's kind of weird, okay? I never would have called it."

"I've been with her for over three years. We're committed and----" _mostly_ "---monogamous. There is nothing weird about that."

"Don't be a grumpypuss, Little D," he chastised, standing on one hand and waggling a free finger at him. "I'm only stating fact. I'm not saying that I blame you, though..."

Damian re-sheathed the katana he'd been practicing with, shooting him a curious look with a tilt of his head.

"No. You did not."

"Didn't what?" Dick all but sang, dismounting neatly.

"You thought about it. With her."

"She's not my _type..."_ he hedged, rolling his shoulders.

"Your 'type' is limited only by legality and the presence of a pulse, Grayson."

Dick rubbed his chin, humming thoughtfully. "Well, now that you mention it..."

Damian frowned mightily at him. "Incestuous. All of you are incestuous. First Drake, then Todd and now you, too?"

Dick heaved a very put-upon sigh, clapping his shoulder. He left a large chalk handprint on his black shirt.

"I know I'm preaching to the choir, but there's just... _something_ about a girl in a Robin suit."


	18. THE NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "Something About a Girl in a Robin Suit."

Laila Constance Wayne took after her father, which wasn't at all surprising considering his (perfect, dominant, merciless to all others) genetics. She had black hair and blue eyes, but thankfully, her disposition was pure Steph. She was generally even-tempered and curious, but she could be _loud._

Dick was the one to figure out that she loved to fly. No matter how upset she was, she calmed down if she got tossed and caught. The baby was absolutely fearless.

Damian felt she'd make a fine Robin once she got old enough to keep up with them.

"Aaaaaaaaand _up we go!"_ Dick said, tossing her up in the air. She squealed, flailing gleefully. "She is vengeance!" Up, and then back down. He didn't worry that Grayson would drop her; he could do the same thing with a full-grown woman. "She is the night!" Up, and then back down. The baby shrieked happily as her uncle caught her. "She---is--- _Lailaaaaaa!"_

And then, it hit him.

"You did that on purpose," he shot at Stephanie. She didn't look up from her book.

"What did I do on purpose."

"Her name. Laila. It's Arabic for _the night._ You did that on purpose."

"Took you eight months, World's Second Greatest Detective," Steph said, and turned a page. "Also, the Arabic version of the name of the French restaurant where we had our first failed date. Congrats, you blew the case wide open."

"I'm fluent in both of those languages," Damian sighed, face in his hands. Steph patted his back comfortingly.

"You're the stupidest genius I know, but I still love you. Don't beat yourself up too hard, sport."

He sighed again, this time more deeply. When he straightened, brother and baby were nowhere to be found.

"Don't look up," he cautioned.

She didn't. The new mom jitters had given way to practicality, which gave her an eerie calm regarding their child and her hardiness. Long gone were the early days of _she's crying oh my god did we break her_.

"He disappeared with her again, didn't he."

"Which means that he will be hanging off a high-rise with a baby backpack on within the next ten minutes, yes," Damian surmised. Dick's enthusiasm knew no limit. "Again."

"Free babysitter," she shrugged, turning another page. "Guess that means it's a Batmommy and Batdaddy Get to Have Sexytimes afternoon. Oh, no. What a shame."

Damian took the book out of her hands and tossed it across the room.

"Come at me. Let's do this thing," he said, completely straight-faced.


	19. New Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "THE NIIIIIIIGHT".

Laila was a January baby, so she was nearly a year old before her first Christmas rolled around. The year was a blur for Steph---she'd felt like she'd only just barely kept up with it all. In that year, she'd been very pregnant for the second time in her life, but this time around had been different. Yes, she'd gone through Oreos like they were going out of style, and yes, she'd dealt with the weight gain and waddling and everything else she'd tried to forget about her first pregnancy, but it'd been different. For one, she'd been almost-thirty instead of almost-fifteen. For two, she'd been as active as possible, doing a hell of a lot more research and computer work than watching Disney movies. For three, she'd had a _real_ boyfriend this time around---one whose name she knew, who trusted her implicitly, who had no qualms about sex with a pregnant woman, who was the actual father of her child, and who was _there_. The biggest difference, to her, was that this time around, she knew the baby was hers.

She'd known that she would be giving up her daughter the first time around. She'd forced herself to think of her as a part of her, but not a part that was hers. It'd been someone else's baby, and she'd just carried her to term. It'd broken her heart the bigger she'd gotten and the more real that she'd become, but she was stubborn. It'd been a special kind of stubbornness, because it was a stubbornness against her own circumstances.

Steph hadn't been stubborn for herself---hadn't been selfish. She'd been resolute, determined that her baby wasn't going to have her childhood, her life. Her daughter wouldn't be a statistic, she'd decided the first time she'd held her, when most girls caved to selfishness buoyed by hormones. So Steph had kissed her once, put her into a stranger's arms, and cried for the next week solid. Getting knocked up by Dean had been a mistake, carrying the baby to term had been making up for the mistake, not getting rid of it, and letting her go had been the hardest good decision she'd made.

When she'd realized that she'd pulled a Britney--- _oops, I did it again_ \---there'd been a moment of panic so strangling, she'd thrown up without any help from the morning sickness. She and Damian had been on a 'break'---she called it a break because the terminology was softer than how it'd really happened, easier to digest---and her situation hadn't been all that much better than when she'd been a teenager. Instead of having school to go to and a possibly-rosy future, she had her responsibility to Gotham to negotiate.

Steph had known that there would be no fighting crime, no shimmying into her Batsuit with a baby belly. She'd known that this time around, the smartest move would be to get it taken care of---Damian would never had known. He'd already made it clear where his priorities were, what he'd sacrifice for the city. He'd painted himself into a corner and couldn't find a way out of it and didn't want her around to remind him of the fact.

She'd agonized over the decision for the better part of a month---to keep herself from indulging in her crimefighting reflex, she'd gone to England. Beryl, the Squire-turned-Knightess, had welcomed her with open arms, giving her a place to stay and a terrible/wonderful idea. Beryl told her about a man in a long tan trenchcoat who knew a thing or two about getting out of deals, and Steph decided right at that moment that fuck it, she was fixing Damian's shit whether he liked it or not. She loved him---loved him until it hurt, loved him until it made her stupid---so she'd twist arms if she had to. It hadn't mattered to her if he didn't want her back in the aftermath---she just didn't like knowing that her babydaddy was going to hell.

He had wanted her back, had wanted the baby, had wanted a way out so desperately, it made her want to cry. Before she'd started getting big, she'd kicked the asses that needed kicked and had thrown up a middle finger to the big guy below. She'd figured out a long, long time ago that Batmen weren't optimists by nature, so sometimes they needed help from people who _were_ born optimists.

So, for most of her pregnancy, she'd gotten to enjoy the knowledge that the baby was _hers_ this time, no matter what. That---and hormones, though she blamed it on them instead of her relief---made her go on pointless, Damian-baffling crying jags. Holding her daughter for the first time and not having to share her had been one of the best moments in her life, a glowing triumph.

And now, almost a year later, she had more tiny miracles than she knew what to do with. Damian was okay, Dick was back, Laila was healthy, and for once, the future looked bright.

"I don't see why you want to do it like this," Damian said, winding a scarf around his neck. Steph handed him the bundled-up baby while she zipped up her coat and got her gloves on. "It would be much safer from a car."

"The view's not the same, genius," she insisted. "And she's been going up on skyscrapers since she was a month old. You know that---you took her up with you herself."

"Up!" Laila chirped. It was her favorite word. "Up!"

Damian tugged her knit cap down more firmly around her ears.

"Yes, up. Up to see the lights, little bat."

Yes, they could have driven around in the car to see the Christmas lights. That's what most people did---what Stephanie herself had done with her mother, before addiction and jail time had made the holidays something that she dreaded. But they were not a normal family, and they had to write their own traditions. Damian hadn't had 'real' Christmases, and Steph hadn't had Christmases free of drunk, criminal relatives and a crushing awareness of how little her family had.

This idea had hit her when they'd been on patrol, and she fully intended to make it something that they'd do every year.

Dick was already on the top of the building by the time they got there. He traded two cups of hot cocoa for Laila, scooping up the infant with a whoop.

"And don't we look lovely in our purple parka tonight, Ms. Wayne. Be still my bat-heart," Dick grinned at his niece. Laila giggled and patted his cheeks with her tiny gloved hands.

Damian slid an arm around Steph's waist, looking out at the city below them. Gotham was frosted with snow, the candy-colored lights twinkling in a rainbow of festive cheer. For once, it wasn't all about dark alleys and jagged black spires. The Gothic architecture sparkled whimsically.

"I see, now," Damian murmured. "Why you insisted upon this."

"You're lucky you have me around to continuously blow your mind," she smiled back.

Their future was definitely, finally, looking bright.


	20. Operation Batmas Cheer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "New Traditions."

The Wayne Manor looked like a gingerbread house frosted and decorated by the most industrious of overachievers. Dick had hung up lights---with Laila's help, of course---so the mansion looked the most festive that it'd been in a decade. It was fitting, Steph thought as she finished up shoveling the path to the front door.

She doubted that any of the guests would use the front door, but it was still a nice gesture. This would be the first year that they'd be having a _real_ Christmas, not just her and Damian drinking spiked hot cocoa and watching claymation Christmas movies. Damian hadn't wanted to break their usual arrangement, but Steph wanted it to mean something a little more than just Frosty and Burl Ives.

For the first time, she _wanted_ to have a family Christmas. For the first time, she felt like she _had_ a family. Damian had caved eventually, and it hadn't surprised her when a large Christmas tree appeared in the front hall. He wouldn't admit to wanting a sense of tradition, but she knew him. He wanted to have a family, even if the thought of having to interact with all of their family members at once made him a little crazy.

And that was why she'd volunteered to shovel snow. Damian could handle family in small bursts, but Dick was the only person other than her that he could deal with for any prolonged period of time. He was driving himself nuts worrying about it, so Steph let him pace and argue with the cat in peace.

Cass was the first one to show up. As one of the few solo agents under their banner, her comings and goings were always without warning. Steph hadn't been totally sure that she would show up, so she smiled widely when she saw her walking up the path. Cass smiled back reflexively, so Steph tossed her shovel aside and ran to meet her. She scooped her up and swung her in a hug. Cass was small and solid as ever, her arms wrapping around her and squeezing back.

It killed Stephanie that she didn't get to see much of her old friend, but Gotham was her home and Cass roamed. She made sure that the Bats' influence didn't stop at the city's limits.

"You look," Cassandra paused, stopped, smiled, and searched for the right word. Her breaths hung in the cold air. "Like you're glowing."

Steph snorted, nose scrunching. "I thought the glow went away after I popped the baby out."

"No," the Blackbat said, and took her hand. "Not this time. Would you like help?"

"Nah. I was just burning time until everyone showed up. If anyone slips on ice and falls, we're going to tell them to turn in their pointy ears. Then we're disowning them."

"A wise decision," Cass agreed placidly. "How is Laila?"

"C'mon," Steph said with wave. "I've got an adorable baby and eggnog. You can have both."

 

*

Letting Dick fix the eggnog was a mistake. The first sip of it confirmed it to be rum with a festive touch of eggnog, not the other way around. He was probably a little strung out over the idea of having so much batfam under one roof and was coping in a way that didn't involve yelling at the cat. Steph poured glasses for herself and Cass, deciding that some holiday traditions had to be seen all the way through.

It was worth watching Cass puzzle over the burn on her first, unprepared sip. She set her drink aside, leaving her arms free to hold her precocious little niece.

"She's beautiful," Cassandra said quietly, stroking her messy black hair with her fingertips. Still sleepy from her nap, Laila yammered pleased vowels at her.

"A---ah--ba---"

"Bat?" Cass prompted, with triggered giggles.

"Her second favorite word," Steph said, rolling her eyes expressively. "Her favorite word is 'up'. I blame Dick and I blame Damian and I will blame them right on through the first time she climbs up a tree at night and gets stuck there. That'll teach them both."

"If she takes after either of you, I find it unlikely that she'll get stuck."

"Did you just meet me, Cass? Do you know nothing about the infamous Brown luck?"

"Yes, but," Cass smiled at the baby, cheek pressed to the top of her head. "She is a Bat. Not a Brown."

And, well. Steph hadn't really thought about it like that before. "Touché. But---"

"I don't care if you believe I should have told you personally!" Damian's voice boomed, filling the vaulted ceilings. "The office-wide memo was as personal as I felt like being at the time!"

"Oh," Steph said, getting up. "Tim must be here."

"I'm her uncle! I---"

 _"Legally,"_ he murmured, sounding bored and annoyed. His masterful use of disdain, paired with notes of sarcasm, was almost an art. Damian had snowflakes caught in his hair and dusted over his shoulders. He calmly took off his coat, seemingly oblivious to Tim's tirade.

"Don't give me that bull, Damian," Tim snapped, throwing up his hands. This was an argument that they had every time he visited. "I'm as much her uncle as Dick is!"

"You've never changed her diapers."

"Changed her diapers? I didn't know Steph was pregnant until _three weeks before the baby was born!_ I've kind of been behind the curve the whole way---you've made sure of that!"

"Merry Christmas, Tim," Steph interrupted, kissing his cheek.

"Hi, Steph. You look great," Tim said, smiling at her. Then he turned back to Damian. "And _another_ thing. You..."

Damian wandered off, trailing his ranting brother behind him. Some things never changed.

 

*

 

Babs got there not long after Tim, so they gathered around to decorate the Christmas tree and catch up. Dick's heavily doctored eggnog ended up being the key to bat-participation, because Damian only began helping after he'd had a healthy mug of it.

It was nice, Steph decided as she watched them all. It wasn't comfortable for them all---no, not with everything that had happened in the past decade---but it would get there. The fact that everyone showed up was a big deal. It meant that, prompted by the holidays or the baby or the desire to turn over a new leaf, bygones were being allowed to become bygones. There was tension, but it was starting to lessen. They all were there because they wanted to be there---because they wanted family, or something like it.

And _everyone_ did show up.

"Aww, you all started the party without me? _Typical."_

Steph watched the ripple of reaction pass through everyone else in the room. She'd known that this would happen, but she'd also known that she couldn't warn them that he'd be showing up---they would have collectively flipped out and forbidden it.

Jason Todd didn't get invited to parties. He crashed them. He crashed them swiftly and mercilessly.

"Before anyone tries anything cute like bataranging my face," he drawled, holding up a card. "I just want to say that I _did_ get an invite."

"He did," Stephanie said, chin held high. "From me."

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" Damian hissed at her in an undertone.

"I'm thinking that we decided that this is a _family_ get together. Hence, I invited all the Robins and Batladies." She gave him a smile that was like a bite and a challenge, opening her arms wide. "If you want to fight me on it, you'll find that I am more than back in shape and I will kick your ass in front of God, the Bats, and the baby. Come at me."

"This is totally why I came," Jason admitted to no one in particular. "Well, and to give my adorable little niece her present---which, before any of you alarmists pipe up, is a stuffed animal. It doesn't shoot, explode, or go after gangsters unprovoked. Now, do I get to sit at the big kids table, or am I going to be sitting with Tiny Tim and the baby? If I have to, I'm poking him in the ribs with a switchblade until he asks God to bless us, one and all."

Tim's size---or lack thereof---was one of those things that wasn't talked about, usually. Mostly because Steph and Dick gave Damian pointed looks whenever he brought it up. To have Jason poke fun at him instead made Damian warm to him, just slightly.

"You may stay," Damian said, much to Steph's relief. "But leave your weapons on the coat rack, you heathen. It's Christmas."

Yeah, like he'd given a damn about Christmas before.

But that caused the tension to bleed out, and they all tried to get back to their conversations and merriment while ignoring the Jason-shaped elephant in the room. Steph reclaimed her daughter from Dick, who was angling to have a 'serious talk' with Babs under the trajectory of the mistletoe, and took a seat next to Jason on the couch. Everyone else had found somewhere else to be.

Well, except for Tim. But he was more hovering worriedly over the back of the couch than actually using the furniture. Tim kept relaying glares from Damian to Jason and then back again. _Boys._

Steph remembered all too well what it was like to step into the manor and feel like an unwanted guest. The only difference between Jason and her was that this had been his home, once. And that was why she'd invited him, even though she'd known it'd make a scene.

Even if he didn't want to admit that they were some kind of family, he deserved to be welcomed home for the holidays.

His shiny red helmet sat next to him on the couch, catching Laila's eye. She leaned into it until she could see her reflection, then patted it with her chubby hands.

"Red!" She said proudly. "Red!"

"Congrats, cupcake. You spawned a genius," Jason said. He hesitated for a moment, then opened his arms invitingly and let Laila crawl into his lap. Not needing a second invite, she sat herself down and started inspecting him with the critical interest of an infant. Jason held very still as she pawed at his cheeks and burbled a rich language of nonsense-syllables. It was like he was afraid she'd skitter off like a wild animal if he made any sudden movements. Steph interceded when she started pulling his hair.

"A genius who has no problems with beating up grown men. I fear for the world when Damian starts training her to be Daddy's Little Vigilante," she sighed. "The end times are nigh."

"I'll say. I'm in the fuckin' Wayne manor on Christmas fuckin' Eve. End of the world shit right here."

She pursed her lips, then said, "Thank you for coming, Jay."

The sincerity must have made him uncomfortable, because he attempted to dislodge it with a shrug.

"I was serious about only coming to drop off the kid's gift---and also serious about it being a stuffed animal. Buuuut it may or may not have a tiny crowbar," he said, his mouth twisting with a wry almost-grin. "So wait to open it until the littlest Batman can see. Lemme know if he loses his shit---that was kind of the point."

"Gotcha. Merry Christmas, you magnificent troll."

"Us unwanted even-numbered Robins have to stick together." He winked, then dropped a dry kiss on her cheek. Steph could feel Damian seethe and bristle from across the room, but no weapons were drawn---bless his tolerant holiday spirit.

She took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled.

Everyone in one room. No knives or guns pulled. Bonding was happening. It could have been said that this was one positive step toward a better future for them all.

Operation Batmas Cheer had been a success, she decided.

 _Mission accomplished._


	21. WWBGD?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This begins before NDND, but ends after "Operation Batmas Cheer."

The first time she meets him, it's summer. It's the dog days, the muggy-sweaty-awful days, the days when the pavement is still hot two hours after the sun goes down and her hair never dries completely. She starts sweating not five minutes after she gets out of the shower in the morning. The brownstone apartment doesn't have air conditioning, so thirteen-year-old Nell spends most of her time at the public library. Her mother wakes her up before she goes to work, giving her enough change for bus fare and reminding her to make breakfast for the rascals and walk them to the Boys and Girls' Club before she goes.

Nell always does. They're a handful, but she likes her cousins. Josie is nine, Ryan is six, Andy is four, and Tara and Tori are almost two. Nell and her mother live with her Auntie Jessica, and everyone kind of takes care of each other. Auntie Jessica hasn't had a boyfriend since she broke up with Tara and Tori's dad, but Nell's okay with that. Things are always spread thin in their life, and adding more people into their three-bedroom apartment pokes holes in their just-getting-by.

Nell's good at making breakfast. She can't cook much, but she can pour a mean bowl of cereal. She's been working on pancakes, but Auntie Jessica doesn't like her using the stove when they're not around. She makes sure everyone's herded up, fed, and either left with a sitter or staying at the club. After she does that, Nell goes to the library and reads until it closes.

One of those sticky-hot summer nights, she misses the last bus home. She tells herself it'll be okay, but it isn't; she has to pass through some of the _bad_ neighborhoods before she can get to her block, and wolves always hassle little girls who go through the concrete woods alone.

The man follows her for two blocks, an oily shadow that she tries to blame on her imagination. She walks faster, but he picks up his pace; she starts running, but his legs are longer and he's got a switchblade.

Nell screams. She tells herself to be brave ( _Batgirl would be brave_ ), but the wink of his switchblade makes her thoughts collapse into broken-up bits. She's still screaming when someone _big_ drops from the fire escape ( _bigger than Hagrid_ ).

Her would-be wolf goes flying. The big, big man hunches his shoulders, craggy face cast in shadow from the brim of his fedora.

She stares up, up, _up_ at him.

"Are you okay?" He asks, and she nods.

"I'm okay," she says. She's trembling and holding onto the straps of her backpack so hard her knuckles hurt, but she can muster up at least that much bravery. "Thank you."

He looks away like he wants to go, then shifts his weight uncomfortably.

"Don't mention it," he rumbles, and she thinks he sounds embarrassed.

"Doesn't anyone tell you thank you?"

"They don't stick around that long," he says, and his big shoulders lift and fall in a shrug.

Nell balls up all her courage and puts her hands on her hips. "Well, I'm grateful. That guy---he was---can I do anything for you?"

He just seems baffled, but Nell's been taught to give whatever she can. Good comes back around, always. Her knees are still jelly, but she knows he probably just saved her life. That's a big deal.

"I mean it," she says, and looks him straight in the face. He squirms, looking all around her but not at her. He's not pretty to look at, but he's a good guy. She's sure of it.

"I've got a kid," he admits after they stand off for a long minute. "Lost my job. If you've got any change, I guess…"

She carefully smooths out the two wadded-up dollar bills from her pocket and gives them to him. They look like play money in his big hand.

"Shoulda been my bus fare," Nell says, and smiles. "It's all I've got. But if you and your kid want to come for dinner, I'm sure my mom would be happy to make extra. You saved my life!"

"What's your name?"

"Eleanor," she says, offering her hand up to shake. "But I go by Nell. What's yours?"

He shakes her hand so cautiously, just barely wrapping his fingers around hers.

"Abuse," he says. "And my son's name is Colin."

She's never heard of someone named _Abuse_ , but she doesn't say that. Nell takes off her backpack, unzipping it and fishing out a spiral-ringed notebook. She scribbles down her address on a corner of a page, then tears it out and hands it to him.

He takes it. He doesn't say anything else, but he walks her the rest of the way home. She thinks he smiles when she waves goodbye, but with his face it's hard to tell.

He doesn't come the next night. He doesn't come the next week. She convinces herself that he won't ever come, but then a redheaded boy knocks on the door of the apartment one night. He's got the palest, skinniest legs she's ever seen, and he's wearing a pair of shorts so big it's a good thing he's got a belt holding them up. His hips won't do the job.

He says his name's Colin, and that his dad wasn't able to come because he'd gotten a job at a shipping yard. He doesn't even have to awkwardly gear up to ask if her offer still stands before she tells him to stay right where he is. Everyone else in the apartment is asleep, so Nell tiptoes around the kitchen, appropriating leftovers and slapping peanut butter and jelly on bread. She successfully navigates all the squeaky cupboard doors, and the silverware drawer that sticks.

This, she thinks, is totally how Batgirl would make a sandwich.

She piles everything on a plate and takes it out to Colin. He's got wrists like twigs, freckles on his nose and arms. He looks like he needs more sandwiches than Nell can make in stealth mode.

They talk for hours, starting with banal hunks of questions (who are your parents, where are you from, what do you like, which school do you go to) and devolving into rapid-fire excitement once they discover one thing they have in common: they both love superheroes.

"Robin's the best," Colin says, and he smiles for the first time since he sat down at her step. It's not very big, but it's still a smile.

"No way," Nell whisper-argues back. They have to keep their voices down, because Mom's a light sleeper even when she's had an eleven hour shift. "Batgirl is the _best."_

"I heard that she's kind of annoying, if you get to know her," he says, tearing the crust off of his last triangle of sandwich. "Batgirl and Robin team up sometimes."

"I know," she says, smiling broadly. "And that's the _best_ of the best."

Colin leaves after she asks if his father is going to be worried, him being out alone so late. He doesn't really give her an answer, but he promises he'll come back again, if she wants. She does, because his dad saved her life and she likes skinny-legged Colin (even though Batgirl _is_ the best, and he just needs to get that through his head.)

He comes about once every week or two at first, like a stray cat. As the months pass, he visits more and more frequently. Nell makes the sandwiches ahead of time, stashing them in baggies in the back of the fridge so that she'll be prepared for whenever he shows up. They sit under the eaves on the front steps, rain or shine, sharing heroes and sandwiches.

Months pass. Years pass. Nell gets her first job when she's fifteen, stocking shelves at a grocery store. Sometimes, she gets off shift after the buses stop running for the night. Mr. Abuse is always there to walk her home, though he never stays for long. He takes the sandwiches in a brown paper bag and promises to tell Colin that she says hello.

Nell gets her second job when she's sixteen, this one a babysitting gig for one of her Aunt's friends. She goes to school from 7:45 to 2:30, is a nanny for two precocious kids from 3:00 to 6:00, and stocks shelves from 7:00 to well past midnight. She usually doesn't have time for dinner, but that's just as well: more often than not, she has sandwiches and conversation until three am. Then she sleeps for a couple of hours and does it all over again.

It's hard, but Nell's tough. When she feels overtired, when she hits that point where she wants to cry and knows she can't, she thinks _what would Batgirl do?_ Batgirl would keep going, so that's what Nell does. She always, always keeps going, because she has places to go. Half her paychecks goes to helping out Mom and Aunt Jess, and the other half goes straight into her savings account.

For Nell, it's college or bust. She's going to be the first person in her family to graduate with a degree. Her Mom can't afford to help her, so Nell pinches the copper and salt out of every single penny she earns.

One day, Colin's sitting on her front step not at night, but when she opens the door to get the paper in the morning. At sixteen, he's still skinny. His limbs are longer, his hands bigger, his face and shoulders more freckled, but he's still that kind of lean that's always hungry. Nell can force sandwiches at him until he splutters and laughs and tells her no, but he stays hungry-skinny.

Her heart trips over itself to see him there in the daylight. He's never come during the day, so something is wrong. He's stony-faced, grim.

"What's wrong?" she asks, sitting down next to him. She's still in the big t-shirt she slept in, her hair all over the place, but the look on his face makes modesty take second fiddle.

"My oldest friend's gone," Colin says, and his voice breaks. "I haven't seen him for months." He curls up even smaller, hugging his knees. "I think he's dead."

She wraps him up in a hug, her arms strong from stocking shelves and carrying babies and stretching dollars. He cries, and she lets him. Colin doesn't show much in the way of emotion. Nell's explosive and loud, but he's all hints and faint smiles. He hides in too-big clothes and always needs a haircut, but she likes talking to him, and she likes making him sandwiches, and she likes _him._

"C'mon," she says, wrapping a hand around his wrist and pulling him inside. Cousins and matriarchs are waking up, but she'll introduce him. She's been meaning to for a while, anyhow. "I'll make you some waffles."

That summer, Batgirl becomes Batwoman. That fall, Nell and Colin start calling their sandwich dinners real dates. That winter, Batwoman shows up in a new suit, and starts working with Batman. Nell sees it in the paper and whoops, shouting "You go, girl!" like Batwoman can hear her. The little girl in her has placed Batwoman in the same category as God and Santa Claus: she's always around, always listening, always reliable. She's Batwoman.

Nell turns seventeen, graduates early, and gets a third job. Sometimes, she stretches out on top of her comforter after her waitressing shift, feeling her heartbeat in her tired feet and promising herself that she'll only close her eyes for ten minutes. She wakes up with her shoes off, a blanket over her and Colin's freckled arm around her waist. He's good at getting in and out of the window, strong even though he's so thin.

She knows he's homeless. She knows he has even less than she does (and that's saying something). She knows there's something wrong with him, that he's sick, because when she asked him if he planned to go back to school he shook his head and said he didn't have the time. But she loves him, and he's always there, and she wants to carve out a chunk of her savings and get a place with him. Nell has to share a room with Josie (age thirteen), and Tori and Tara (age six). There's no such thing as privacy.

But without her savings, college is out of the question. She can't leave Mom and Aunt Jess stranded. Family is family, and Nell doesn't shirk responsibility.

The kids get older and the expenses grow, not diminish. Nell tells herself "next semester" every semester, but before she knows it she's twenty-one. Nell's 5'10" and pretty, the kind of pretty that surprises her sometimes when she looks in a mirror. Colin's still hungry-lean, a full four inches shorter than she is. They don't match, but neither of them mind.

College drops out of conversations. It used to be _when_ I go to college, then it petered off into _if_ I go to college, and then Nell just stops talking about it altogether. She doesn't dwell, but it hurts. She hasn't let herself want much, but she wants this _bad_.

Then a letter comes in the mail. It's heavy, like the paper's weighed down by the richness of the ink on it. The letterhead's embossed; she runs her fingers all over the upraised edges of the _W_ and reads it four times before she gets that it's real, that it's hers, that she just got something better than Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket.

The letter says that she's been awarded a Wayne Foundation scholarship for Gotham University. Full ride. She doesn't remember applying for it, but that doesn't put a damper on her excitement. Her goals bloom up gold and bright again, and Colin smiles that smile of his and takes the crust off his sandwich before eating it.

They can afford an apartment (barely, finally), and she's _so_ okay with the fact that it isn't much. Their joint belongings fit in three boxes, so moving's easy. Nell starts her first term, and instantly runs into the most obvious stumbling block ever: she physically cannot work three part time jobs and go to school full time. Math's not her strong suit, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out that her time's overfull. She's finally got a place of her own, but she doesn't have the time to sleep in the twin mattress on the floor they call a bed.

She breaks down and cries after the first semester ends. She pulled Bs and Cs, and only barely. Colin makes her a sandwich and they sit on their mattress and share it by the light of a camping lamp. The check for the electric bill bounced, and she doesn't get paid until the end of the week.

"Don't worry," he says, his arm around her. "I've got a friend who might need a nanny. He'd pay good money for someone he can trust, and he'll trust me that I trust you."

The peanut butter has momentarily stopped up her sniffles, so Nell just nods. She wants to believe that her Hobo Boyfriend has connections, but she can't---not until she gets a call at Job Number Two from a man who claims to be Damian Wayne.

Nell hangs up twice. He keeps calling back, and she tells him ha ha funny oh yeah, you're _Damian Friggin' Wayne_.

The third time he calls, he says that no, he is Damian _Fucking_ Wayne, and that Colin had spoken highly of her skills as a nanny. She trips over herself apologizing, but he dismissively tells her she sounds like his wife, and that her interview will be at the Wayne Manor at three o'clock sharp.

She has to borrow Ryan's bike, but she gets there by three. Damian Fucking Wayne doesn't answer the door---it's answered by a smiling blonde woman with a drooling baby on her hip. Mrs. Wayne greets her like a relative and drags her into the kitchen for iced tea and the most informal interview of Nell's life.

The baby's name is Laila, and she's just over a year old. Stephanie says that she'll only need to be watched during the early morning and afternoon, because Mr. Wayne has big business to do and Mrs. Wayne works nights. She offers to pay her more for a half day of work than she makes at all three jobs put together, and promises to work around her classes, too.

Nell hugs baby Laila and smiles so she won't cry. She starts the next day.

It's the best job she's ever had, even though it's got its up and downs. Laila's a good baby, but she's more mobile and fearless than a one year old should be. The Manor's _big_ , too. Nell feels like she should leave a crumb trail, sometimes. Damian Wayne's her age, and one of Colin's oldest friends, it turns out. Stephanie's older, but she doesn't look or act it. When she's around, Nell's job feels more like spending time with an older sister; Steph is boisterous and optimistic and bright. She's not sure how she imagined a billionaire's wife to be, but Steph isn't it. It's not long before Steph finds reasons for her to come by the manor without the nanny pretense, just to chat and help her with her studies and give her the occasional pep talk before midterms or finals. Those pep talks leave her shaky and energized and feeling ready to take on the entire world.

The rest of the year, she has straight As. Under a better diet and less stress, Colin actually gains some weight. The year closes with high fives and accomplishments all around. The Waynes give her a week off at Christmas, and a bonus that feels like way too much. Steph hands her a set of keys and an address on a slip of paper. She tells her that it's bought and paid for, totally hers, and to shut up and just accept it.

"D's generous during the holidays," she says. "He'll be offended if you don't take it."

"But it's a _house_ ," Nell sobs. She tries so, so hard not to, but it's so _much._ There's enough room for her and for Colin and for her family and she doesn't have to worry anymore. No more bounced checks, no more looking at Colin's ribs and feeling responsible.

"He doesn't do things halfway," Steph says with a grin. "And he's been trying to put a roof over Colin's head for ages. Just pinkie swear you'll stick around for another year. Laila's gearing up for her terrible twos, and I don't know if I'll survive on my own."

"Okay," she says. It's all she can say.

Batwoman hugs her (and oh, she knows; she's always known that grin, because she's kept every clipping, every smile rendered in newsprint).

That's the last good year that they get. Spring comes, and Colin starts sleeping more. He loses the weight that he'd gained. He gets dizzy easily. He refuses to go to a doctor, and she knows why. She knows, but he's never told her. Nell's never figured out if it's because he's ashamed of his other face, or if it's because he thinks he's ugly when he's huge, but she's known who Mr. Abuse is for a while.

When the dog days of summer come, Steph puts on a serious face and tells her that they need to talk. She says that she has the right to know, that she should know what is going to happen, what's happening, what _Venom_ is.

"Technically, he should have died years ago," Steph says quietly, her eyes shiny-bright with tears. "Batman estimated his life expectancy at twelve or thirteen. Batman's rarely ever wrong."

"But he's dying," Nell says, staring down at her hands. "He's twenty-three, and he's dying."

"He's deteriorating. We've talked to people, and there's…there's just not anything that we can do. You have to trust me on that one."

"I trust you," she says, and her chin wobbles. "You're Batwoman. I've always trusted you."

Steph's mouth opens and closes, but she doesn't ask how she figured it out. She just puts her arms around Nell and lets her curl up against her and cry.

Death courts Colin slowly. They both keep up their spirits and do what they can to be happy, but Death's always hanging there with cold fingers on the back of their necks. She gets now why he didn't think he had time for school, why he didn't have a home or a job. Colin had a power, and he knew it'd kill him eventually. So, he's always used his time as best he could.

Nell watches him sleep, thinks about what goes on in his shaggy ginger head. She wonders how he spent so many years being patient and content with so little, knowing that any day might be The One. She wonders if she should've been more selfish, giving herself and the hours of her day to him, not to college and jobs and that somewhere she still hasn't gotten. She wonders how a world could punish a guy like him, who'd never been selfish at all.

It's hard to see a silver lining. He gets a little gaunter, a little weaker, daily. His breaths get so shallow when he sleeps, she keeps a hand on his chest to make sure it keeps moving up and down.

For the first time, Nell gets angry at the world. There's only so much unfairness that she can stand, and he doesn't deserve to be twenty-four and wasting away. Nell just wants to scream and scream and scream.

Steph sees it. One crisp October afternoon, after Laila'd been put down for a nap under the watchful eye of Uncle Dick, Steph asks her if she wants to go on a run. It helps clear my head, she says. Nell figures she could benefit from some head-clearing, so she says yes. She's never been a runner, but she's built like one.

Nell's strong. She's got muscle in her arms and thighs, and once the runs start becoming a regular thing, she gets stronger. She doesn't have to run with Steph anymore; sometimes, she does it on her own. It does clear her head.  
Runs turn into self-defense lessons, which turns into martial arts, which turns into being allowed into the Batcave. Nell takes to Steph's lessons with zeal and enthusiasm, beating out her frustrations on training dummies so that she doesn't have any anger left when she goes home to Colin. 

By the time he's twenty-five, he's wheelchair-bound. As Nell's gotten bigger and stronger, he's slowly withered. He still has that private, enigmatic smile for her, but it's become a rarity. A week after Laila's fourth birthday, Steph announces that she's pregnant again. It feels weird, talking about babies and life while they all know Colin's not going to make it that long.   
He's at peace about it.

"Twenty-five's ancient when you don't think you'll make it to your teens," he says, and smiles. He's happy, genuinely happy, and Nell's so grateful-sad-angry-in love that she doesn't ever know what to say. Damian spends a lot of time at their place, watching Disney movies on the days that Colin doesn't have the energy to stay awake.

Colin makes Damian swear not to name his kid after him, and he repeats it to Nell for good measure. He doesn't want that kind of memorial. He wants to be remembered as himself. He doesn't want Damian to get choked up every time he says his kid's name. No Colins, no Colleens.

Damian tosses a baby name book at him and tells him to help him pick one out, then, because he's going to be a part of the process whether he likes it or not. They pick out a handful together, laughing and discussing all the possible hideous combinations with _Wayne_.

Colin passes away in his sleep on a rainy April morning. Nell doesn't realize that he's gone until she kisses his cool cheek. He looks that peaceful.

She calls the Waynes, then sits on the front steps. The space that Colin should have took up next to her is enormous. Damian barely stops the car before he gets out of it. He tells her he's sorry, and he looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn't.

Stephanie takes more time to get her seatbelt unbuckled. She's a little over four months along with twins, so she has to be sure of her footing in the wet grass and the drizzle. She sits in the space that Colin should take up.

Nell doesn't cry until Damian carries out Colin's body, wrapped neatly in a sheet. He just looks so small in Damian's arms, so _gone._

And then, he really is gone. The knowledge smashes wildly inside her, breaking up everything in ways that feel impossible to put back together. For as long as she can remember, Colin's always been there. Now, he's not. He never will be again.

She sobs until she's all sobbed out, until there's just nothing left but faintly sick hiccups and shuddering breaths.

"What do I do without him?" Nell whispers, because she truly doesn't know.

Stephanie strokes her face, her hair.

"You live," she says, her voice thick. She's been crying, too.

"I want to do something," Nell says. "I have to do something."

"Living is something."

"I have three-fourths of a degree in Philosophy, ten years of experience as a nanny and part time everything, and I---what is that? He was something. He _did something."_

"Well, you do have some pretty awesome self-defense training, too," Steph says, and she opens up her purse. She gives Nell a tissue, and something black and vaguely leathery.

It's a cowl. The first time Nell saw it, she was just a little girl. She traces the pointed ears.

And she kind of wonders why she hadn't realized it before---why she didn't see that Stephanie was giving her a whole lot more than a running buddy and advanced self defense lessons. She'd latched onto the distraction, too wrapped up in Death to realize she was being groomed for something big.

"It's an idea," Steph says.

 _It's hope,_ Nell thinks.

"I'm going to be sidelined for at least the next six months, anyway," she explains. "And when I didn't know what to do, this is the something that I chose. If you're serious about wanting to do something, this is where you'll start."

 _What would Batgirl do?_ Nell thinks.

"I'll do it," Batgirl says.


	22. Shouldn't Be Mean to Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "WWBGD?"

The whole mess started because the gangs were a little behind the times. They either didn't keep up with the news, or had gotten their information second-hand, because the kidnapping attempt was a fuck-up from start to finish.

There had been a bit of a media stir when the long-missing Dick Grayson had reappeared, stepping out naturally at the summer Wayne Foundation gala and acting like nothing had happened, but it took years before the gang saw fit to strike. It might have been because they thought they lacked an angle, or it could have just been a lack of resources. Either way, the attack came from out of the blue only because it was so, so delayed and so, so _off-base._

Laila was kidnapped at her daycare. Damian had said again and again that the daycare wasn't nearly safe enough, but he hadn't wanted to be proven right. He'd hoped that the knowledge that Bats followed Waynes closely would make any would-be kidnappers think twice, but this crew was very stupid and acting out of personal vengeance.

The dumb shits thought that Laila---registered under 'Brown' instead of 'Wayne' for obvious reasons---was Dick Grayson's daughter. They thought that they would be ransoming her---or hurting her---to get Dick's attention.

If he hadn't been so furious that his daughter had been _kidnapped_ , Damian would have been deeply insulted.

"Damian," Dick struggled to keep pace with him as Damian pounded toward the Batmobile, buckling his suit and putting on his cowl as he went. "Listen. Damian, breathe. Damian, for Pete's sake stop for a second and listen!"

"I don't have time for this," he said, shooting him a smoldering glare. No, he couldn't stop. He couldn't waste time. His daughter was in the hands of goddamn filth and he would break every single one of them. He wouldn't kill them, but oh, he would _enjoy_ filling the ICU tonight. They would pay for this mistake in the only currency he was interested in: broken body parts.

Dick grabbed his shoulder and didn't let go. "Damian. Take a deep breath. We'll find her."

"Of course we will," he snapped, annoyed. "I implanted a tracking chip in her when she was born."

"That's one of those things that's going to come back to haunt you when she's a teenager. Never, ever let her know that you chipped her."

"I don't have time for this," Damian repeated, and tried to brush past him.

"I'm coming with you," Dick said stubbornly. "It's me they want. And if I'm not going with you, I'm going to go tell Steph what's going on and then follow you anyway. I'm not a prom date that you can ditch, Little D."

Tattling. How very _like_ him.

"Get in the car," he said flatly. "I'm driving."

"You really are all grown up."

"Not the time, Grayson."

Once they got there, it was all fairly by-the-book. The tracker led them to a seedy nightclub, which unsurprisingly had a secret basement full of hot merch and men with guns. The only thing that was different from a usual bust was the way Damian's lungs didn't feel like they were pulling in enough air. Laila's arms were ziptied behind her back and they'd wadded up one of her socks and stuck it in her mouth. As soon as Batman and Nightwing kicked the door open, she spit it out and shrieked, "NOW YOU'RE IN BIG TROUBLE" at her captors.

She was a smart, smart girl. Dick yelled at her to close her eyes so that she didn't see the fight, but Laila ignored him. She watched her father and uncle cut through the men, calculating and dissecting and unafraid.

There was always the question of nature vs. nurture. Damian had been trained from birth, but he hadn't wanted that life for his daughter. Laila's upbringing had been the roughest estimation of normal that they were capable of, but she still gravitated toward _the fight._ It wasn't 'fighting', it wasn't 'violence', it was a calling as clear and integral as religion. Watching her watch them, calm and fascinated, Damian knew that it wouldn't be long before she asked to be shown how.

He both looked forward to and dreaded that day. He tried to shelter her in all the ways he knew how, but his child carried a heavy, complicated legacy. It was unrealistic to believe that she wouldn't don a mask and join the fight that her grandfather had begun, but he was at least going to allow her to make the choice for herself.

Damian had learned one lesson from his father that Bruce hadn't been trying to teach. Instead of seeing his allies as soldiers, he saw them as family. That meant that he left greater openings and advertised emotional weaknesses, but it also made it clear to everyone who wore the bat symbol that they were not expendable. They were a clan, not an army. He refused to repeat his father's mistakes, even if it was for the good of the city.

They cleared the place out in short order. Damian wasted no time in cutting the ziptie from around Laila's wrists. She arched on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck. He picked her up, holding her close, and managed to start breathing evenly again. Laila kissed as much of his un-mask-covered face as she could.

Dick crouched beside one of the men, pulling his head up by his greasy hair.

"So, buddy, let me tell you where it all went wrong," he said, his tone purely conversational. "'Cause I figure, you've got to be asking yourself that. It seemed like such a good plan, didn't it? Foolproof, even for your merry band of chuckleheads. But, here's the thing. You assumed that this Laila Brown kid was Richard Grayson's lovechild. Cute, but not on the money. Her name wasn't doctored in the system because she was a dirty secret, but because she's a _Wayne._ "

The man's mouth opened and closed like a landed trout.

"Aww, there we go. You're getting it! See, he's getting it all on his own. That little girl?" Dick jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, to where Damian was holding Laila. "She's a goddamn Batbaby. You screwed the pooch big time."

"Fa---" Laila caught herself, wriggling in Damian's arms. "Ba'man, lemme down. Down, please." He knelt back down, cape pooling around him, and let her go. She stomped over to the half-conscious man Dick was talking to. She pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt, which had pointed little bat ears on it, and crossed her arms over her chest in a way that _had_ to give Dick a feeling of déjà vu.

"You're a bad man," she scolded, waving finger and all. Most children her age would have been a traumatized, sobbing mess. Not Laila Constance Wayne. "My socks tasted gross and I hate you. You shouldn't be mean to girls!"

And then, before either man could stop her, Laila kicked him swiftly in the crotch.

Dick looked at Damian. He tried not to seem impressed, but he knew better.

"How did they _not_ know she's yours?"


	23. Ave Maria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "Shouldn't Be Mean to Girls".

Her name was Joy Anderson, and as far as Laila was concerned, she was one of the most beautiful women in Gotham. She had long blond hair that she kept woven into a messy braid, and murky eyes that looked green or brown, depending on the light. In reality, her looks were average---not much set her apart from the rest of humanity, save for her music. Joy was twenty-two, a senior at GU, and an accomplished concert pianist. She'd chosen to give piano lessons, though she wasn't hurting for money---her entire college career had been funded by Wayne Foundation scholarships.

That was how Laila had found her. Her grandfather had been the dictionary definition of _meticulous_. No move was ever wasted, no action truly impulsive. Even at nine years old---and having never met the man, seeing as he'd died when her father had only been fourteen---she knew to never doubt him. She chose her especially as her music tutor, though she didn't really need an instructor. Laila had been gifted with more than just Wayne money by birthright; she gained new skills with her father's alarming alacrity. She didn't need a tutor to drill her in scales again and again. She passed her request off to Father as hero worship and charm, saying that she'd been so touched with Ms. Anderson's performance at the Wayne Foundation Christmas gala, she wanted to learn from her first-hand.

Laila expected that Father was wise to her ways and saw through her request, but he allowed it. There was an unspoken pact that they wouldn't tell Mama.

And Laila hadn't lied to him, really. She did want to learn from Joy first-hand, just not how to play the piano.

It hadn't taken Joy long to figure that out, too. Laila had tried to make mistakes, to fool the woman into believing that she needed tutoring, but her inner perfectionist had shoved her headlong into a panic attack. Joy didn't out her as a prodigy and polymath, thankfully, so Laila got what she wanted---a friend to talk to, an unbiased second opinion, someone who shared her love of music without getting misty-eyed.

They sat side by side on the piano bench. Laila's legs couldn't quite reach the floor, so she kicked her feet idly. Her music lessons were her quiet time, her time to relax and enjoy the shape of the keys under her small fingers. She'd reached the point in skill that her ability to play was hampered only by the size of her hands. She'd grow into the grand piano eventually, but until then she had Joy's graceful long fingers to catch the keys that she missed.

"You should be more careful," Joy said with a laugh when she came in for what would be their last lesson. "You look like you bit the gym mat again, Princess."

Laila smiled shyly, touching the raspberry on her cheek with ginger fingertips. Mama had been helping her with her eskrima exercises, and Laila's concentration had slipped. She'd gotten an accidental whap with the stick, and she knew she'd deserved it. The thought of never seeing Joy again had consumed her, and she hadn't been able to throw it off. She'd be ten years old in a couple of weeks, and she knew that meant her training would intensify. Joy would be graduating before Christmas, so that would be the end of her piano lessons.

"I can be clumsy sometimes," she said, taking her side of the bench and waiting patiently as Joy took off her boots and winter wear. She shook the snow from her bangs and semi-frayed braid. Laila had braided her own hair to match, though hers was as coal-black as Father's.

"Your family must have some major stock in band-aids," Joy grinned, sitting beside her. "The way you go through them. I thought all trust fund babies were supposed to be perfect, pampered little angels."

"Some of us like climbing and gymnastics," _and jiujitsu, and ninjutsu, and Muy Thai, and judo, and KFM..._ "And playing the piano."

"You're the most badass trust fund baby I've taught," Joy said, tweaking her nose fondly. "I'm gonna miss our lessons, kiddo."

That made Laila's heart feel too big to be wedged comfortably under her ribs. She pursed her lips, fishing out the music book that they always set up but rarely consulted.

"I was thinking that we could play Schubert today," she said, flipping to the arrangement she'd spent most of the night deciding on. " _Ellens dritter Gesang_. Something easy."

Something quiet, something easy. Something that she could talk over. Laila wouldn't forgive herself if she failed to ask her that one hard, lingering question that had hung over every lesson.

"Normal people usually call that one _Ave Maria_. But you did your homework, as usual. Do you speak German, Laila?"

Almost fluently. Latin was giving her more trouble.

"Um, _sauerkraut_ is German, right?" She said instead, starting to play. "I just thought this one was pretty. My Mama likes it. She plays it sometimes, and sings the Latin parts that she remembers. Father tries to convince her not to sing, but Mama is stubborn."

Joy nodded, humming under her breath. She just watched Laila play, for once.

"Is your mother like that?"

The question was a careful one. A loaded one. Laila knew the answer.

"Oh, no," Joy said, shaking her head so hard the sinuous rope of her braid slid off her shoulder. "My mother was in her late forties when I came into the picture---she'd gotten a lot of her wildness out of her system and was basically the cookies-and-apron cliché. I was adopted at birth, so I never met my biological parents. Even though she didn't 'have' me, my Mom's been the best that I could ask for. I mean, she named me Joy because I was her pride and joy the second she set eyes on me. Corny, but heartfelt."

Laila nodded, soaking in that new information.

"Did you ever wonder about what your birth mother was like?" She asked. She couldn't help but sound a little bit wistful.

"All the time," Joy laughed. "I could look her up, but...I never have felt like I should. From what my parents told me, she was barely sixteen when she had me. She wanted to keep me, but she gave me up so that I could have a better life. And I've had a great life, so if I did meet her, it'd just be to...I don't know, tell her _thank you._ Thanks for having me. Life's pretty awesome."

"She must have loved you," Laila said firmly. She didn't have to fake it; she knew it as fact. "She must have loved you very much."

Joy smiled, but she looked baffled. That wasn't surprising, since the parent they shared wasn't known for her detective skills.

"You're the deepest nine year old I know. Have I ever told you that?"

"Every lesson," she said, smiling. "I'm sad that you are graduating, but I'm glad that you've been my friend. I will miss you." In a rare show of her true age, her smile trembled and crumbled into a frown. _"Lots."_

"I'll come back for mini recitals every time I swing back home for holidays," Joy promised, holding up her pinkie. Laila hooked her pinkie with hers, squeezing to cement the bond. "Pinkie swear."

Laila sniffed hard. She'd told herself that she wouldn't cry, but tears were crawling into her voice anyway. "Promise?"

"Promise." Joy kissed the top of her head. With her eyes closed, she could have mistaken her for Mama. "You're like the genius little sister I never had."


	24. Little Robin Redbreast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "Ave Maria".

The question of _when_ had hung over their heads since Laila's birth. With Batman and Batwoman for parents, it was only a matter of time before those tenacious, crimefighting Wayne-Brown genetics kicked in and propelled her to take up the crusade her grandfather had started. She was a special case, though, because she'd been raised in the cave, not transplanted in as an orphan. Domino masks and the special people who wore them had always been a big part of her life---hell, that was her family in a nutshell. They'd sheltered her as best they could, but they'd known that at some point, she would join them on their nightly constitutionals.

He'd wrestled with the question of _when_ for years. A week before her tenth birthday, Dick had her join him on a night run. No masks or capes or intent to bust crime, just the two of them free-running through the twisty alleyways and brick mazes of Gotham's heart.

She'd kept up. Catching and falling and flipping through the air with her, he'd been painfully reminded of two things. The memory of carrying her with him in a backpack when she'd been a baby was bittersweet---it really did feel like it'd only been yesterday, trope or not. But it was the second memory that did him in, that made his decision for him: their seamless, impromptu acrobatic act dovetailed with old, fuzzy memories of the last time he'd been a part of a Flying Family.

He almost missed the entire party. Criminal activity didn't take breaks for the birthday parties of little girls, so most of the superpowered godmother and godfathers, pseudo-aunts and adopted-uncles, had left by the time Nightwing got back home. He used every covert skill in the book to slip out of the festivities unnoticed---Laila was nowhere to be seen around the cake and chatting adults. He knew her, and he knew her hiding places.

Laila was sitting on a rafter overlooking one of the cut-away accordion sub-levels in the cave. She still had her sunny yellow party dress on, but she still didn't look like a normal child. Her arms and legs were peppered with band-aids and bruises. She took her training very, very seriously, and it showed. Her father's inherent skills coupled with her mother's stubbornness had meshed to make one very tough little girl.

Dick wished that Bruce had lived to see her.

"How was the party?" Dick asked, swinging up on the rafter. If it'd been any other ten-year-old sitting up there, he would have been panicking and going up for a swift rescue. But, he knew better than to worry about Laila falling. She was more comfortable dangling precariously from great heights than she was with both feet on the ground. There wasn't a corner of the cave that she hadn't climbed up to and explored. Dick had shown her some of the best perches himself.

"Father has once again denied my request for a pony," Laila said loftily, kicking her feet. "I don't think that he wants me to grow up to be well-adjusted and happy."

"Clearly," Dick grinned, planting himself down beside her. She scooted closer, kicking his calf with the toe of her scuffed-up sneaker.

"Mama was looking for you earlier, Uncle," she told him, and the way she said _looking for you_ tacked _with intent to kill_ on the end of it. He rubbed the back of his neck and hoped that Steph would see it in her heart to forgive him. If Damian was a lion, Steph was a lioness---and anyone with any knowledge of the animal kingdom knew it was the lady lions who ran the Pridelands.

"I was picking up something for a certain birthday girl," he said, pulling a twine-wrapped bundle out of his messenger bag with a flourish. "And I got caught up in a gang thing, so Mama is probably going to hang Uncle up by his toes for being late."

"Mama can be scary. I don't believe that Father fears anyone the way he fears her." She looked up at him expectantly, blue eyes curious. He set the bound-up cloth in her lap, and watched her carefully unwrap it.

As soon as she pulled back the black cape and saw a flash of red, green, and yellow jewel tones, she shrieked.

"Happy birthday, Lai," he said, laughing. He wished he'd had the forethought to record this. Her reaction was youtube-worthy. "It's not a pony, but non-villainous ponies are hard to find in the metropolitan area."

Damian and Stephanie had agreed to let him decide when Laila was ready to become the sixth Robin. She'd started training with her parents shortly after her botched kidnapping attempt, but she hadn't been allowed out on the street. With the adults all working in a close network, there wasn't a pressing need for a Robin. They weren't going to take any chances with Laila, or push her out of the gate before she was totally ready.

But she was _good_. She'd been blessed with near-flawless genes, so her childish hero-worship imitations of Dick's acrobatic stunts had rapidly turned into learning to follow his movements perfectly. He wasn't an easy person to keep up with, but she'd been a flyer from birth. He had no doubts that she was determined to be the best new addition to the field-active family.

Ten had felt like a good age to start her. It would have been early for anyone else, but that was how old the last Robin had been when he'd donned the costume.

The Robin uniform looked more like her father's than her mother's, since Steph had strong opinions on Robins in skirts. Being the only other girl Robin, they'd bowed to her expertise. Laila explored each piece of the costume solemnly.

"It's very brightly colored," she whispered, almost reverent. "Won't that be disadvantageous?"

He remembered asking the same question himself, many, many years ago. It'd been more like, _but Mom, it's so colorful it looks dumb. I look dumb._ But Laila had an impressive vocabulary on her, and a respect for what her family had made Robin mean.

"It'll help us keep track of you," he said, tapping the _R_ patch on the suit's chest. "Little Robin redbreast. The colors take some getting used to, but if you can kick butt when you're pretty as a bird, you'll be even better as a bat. It's a process."

She didn't make any sound, but fat tears started rolling down her cheeks. She wasn't a very demonstrative girl, but she was still fiercely and deeply emotional. It was rare for her to cry in front of anyone, though.

"Hey, hey," Dick soothed, rubbing her back. "What're the waterworks for? It's your birthday, kiddo, so you can cry if you want to, but you don't have to."

"It's 'cause you," her chin wobbled. She was trying valiantly to regain her composure. "You were the first real Robin. It makes me---makes me _happy_ that you think I am worthy of your name. Grandfather chose all the other Robins, but _you're_ choosing me."

Dick's heart squeezed in his chest. He hadn't thought that it'd mean _that_ much to her, coming from him. It'd never occurred to him that no, he hadn't really had a say in who took his name after he retired it. Laila had a point.

"I'm not the only real Robin that signed off on this idea, you know," he said, putting an arm around her skinny shoulders. "All of your uncles did. So did your mom and dad. You've got a five-fold Robin approval."

She nodded, sniffing, and gathered the suit up in her arms. She hugged the material to her chest, burying her face in it.

"I've been waiting for this for as long as I can remember."

Dick smiled. "Robin's a family name, and you've got it on both sides. I know you'll do the legacy proud."

There was no blood connecting him and Laila, though she could have passed for his own daughter. She was, in a way. He was one part father, one part uncle to her. Damian had taken all of his cues from Dick, who'd always been one part father, one part brother to him. They were family---a messy, complicated family brought together by loss and the inability to exist in the normal world. He, Damian, and Steph shared the manor, as well as the same night job. Between the three of them, one was always with Laila and the other two could watch each others' back on the street. He'd had as big of a role in raising her as her parents had.

Laila was one of his. That's all there was to it. Dick ruffled her hair, then planted a kiss on top of her head.

"You'll do us all proud, baby bird."


	25. Diversion Tactics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know about Terry's genetics. Yes, I know that it doesn't fit the timeline. But this is my AU, and I make the rules around here. Okay? Okay. This one takes place after "Little Robin Redbreast".

"I won't allow it," Damian said firmly, not looking away from the computer screen. "Absolutely not. Legal complications aside, Laila outstrips him both in maturity and crimefighting prowess. Our daughter can do better."

Steph pushed the back of his chair with her boot. He didn't look up, so she did it again. And again. And again.

"She's going to choose whoever she's going to choose, and you're going to deal with it, Daddybat."

He shot a glare at her over his shoulder.

"I wish you wouldn't call me that."

"And I wish you'd stop making Lai feel like she's disappointing the family name by liking someone you don't approve of," Steph said, giving his chair another kick. Damian heaved a sigh, turning around and grabbing her ankle. "You know she worships you."

"I simply don't feel that it is a good match for her," he admitted. Steph rested her boots on his knees, giving him a calculating look.

"And this has nothing to do with the fact that Tim's his mommabird, right?"

 _"Tt._ Caddoc is legally her first cousin. I don't care about that, but I don't want her to suffer the media backlash---nor do I want to have to be primed on what I can and cannot say to them at the dinner table."

"I used to trust you," she said. "But then you asked if any sex was involved in their babymaking, or if they were just fornicating for the sake of fornication. And you _know_ how Tim is."

Damian preened, patting her calf.

"Of course I know how Tim is. That is why I said it in the first place."

"You're a terrible person," Steph told him fondly. "And I don't stop you from that. But, I draw the line at letting you be a terrible father. If she wants to kiss her part-alien cousin, I'm giving her the go-ahead. It's a brave new world, and you should know by now that Laila's going to do whatever the hell Laila wants."

"I..." He made a low noise in his chest, annoyed and contemplative at the same time. "I do know that. She's fifteen. I do trust her judgment, but..."

Steph leaned into him, kissing his cheek.

"But you still worry, Daddybat. I know. I do, too. But take a second to think about what _we_ were doing at her age. Me? I was a pregnant and dating a sidekick who wouldn't give me his real name."

"And I..." Fifteen seemed like a very, very long time ago.

"You'd sold your soul to the Devil and was about to embark on Sad Orphan in Snow: the World Tour," Steph supplied helpfully. "She's doing a lot better than we did at fifteen. Cut her some slack and let her make her mistakes."

His wife had a damnable way with words.

"She is wiser than either of us. I know that. But she's still a little girl."

 _"Enough,"_ said little girl announced, dropping soundlessly from above. He'd known that she was hiding there, but he hadn't called her out. Better that she 'overhear' his concerns than be defensive if he brought them up to her directly. Laila was already dressed in her Robin uniform, ready to join her family on their evening constitutional. But it'd only be a half night for her, since she did have school in the morning and even an above-average IQ needs some sleep to function properly.

"We were just talking about you, pumpkin," Steph said brightly. Laila smiled briefly at her before turning to Damian with an etched frown.

"Father," Laila said, tucking a hank of long black hair behind her ear. He knew exactly where she'd learned that blasé glare from, and he found himself feeling vaguely guilty for having turned it on so many people himself over the years. "I have no interest in Caddoc. It was merely a diversion."

Damian sat up a little straighter in his chair. "Excuse me?"

"A diversion, Father. I don't want to date Caddy. My feelings for him are not unlike the feelings I would have for a loyal dog, if you'd allowed me to have one as a child. I knew that if you believed that I was interested in him, you would panic and worry about that hypothetical situation, leaving me free to see the boy I like. His name is Terry, and he has no connections to the vigilante community---and no connection to domestic _or_ international crime. I investigated his family thoroughly before I approached him at school, so please don't feel that you need to recheck my work."

Steph had a hand clapped over her mouth to keep from laughing, but mumbled little giggles were escaping between her fingers.

Damian nodded once at his daughter, the corner of his mouth turning up into a smirk.

"Well played."


	26. What to Expect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after "ALL the B-Day Sex", but before "Damian and Klarion's Magical Cat Adventure".

Damian peered moodily up at Steph over the frames of his glasses. She was wearing one of her highly specific smiles, and he couldn't quite decide what it meant.

"Absolutely not," he said. "I have no desire to know anything."

"Too bad," she said cheerfully, her smile only widening. That smile didn't bode well for his productivity level for the rest of the afternoon. "I'm going to tell you, anyway."

"Stephanie. I'm assuming that your eyes are failing you, because I would _hope_ that it's completely obvious that I'm busy." Damian gestured widely around himself and the desk, at the literal piles of papers he was working his way through.

Tim had come by earlier, and it was obvious that even though Stephanie had forgiven him, Red Robin was still furious with him. He understood, of course; Steph had spent a full month living with Tim, and that was All Damian's Fault. They'd had a begrudging respect for each other on the best days, but not a lot of love, so hurting Stephanie hadn't endeared his older brother to him in any way. Steph hadn't opted to tell Tim about her pregnancy, her baggy sweatshirt mostly concealing how big she was getting, so Damian had held his tongue. If she'd wanted him to know, she would have told him herself.

Keeping such an obvious secret from Drake made him feel just a little bit smug; wasn't Tim supposed to be the only real detective left in the family? But he'd learned that when it came to Stephanie, Tim had never had a clue. The smugness didn't _quite_ erase his irritation, though. Tim had brought paperwork with him, justifying that if Damian was going to spend months convalescing, he needed something to occupy him.

Tim had more or less thrown the paperwork at him when he'd smirked and told him that Steph kept him _very_ occupied.

"I can see, D," she said, standing over him with her hands on her hips.

"Then, in the interest of my father's company, I must ask that you let me finish what I'm doing."

"Like Tim would ever let the company go under," Steph said, rolling her eyes. "And he didn't say when you had to have that stuff done."

Valid points, both. But, he wasn't sure how long it would take him to complete the work. For the time being, he couldn't count on his old stamina and energy levels. He wasn't sleeping through entire days anymore, but he still needed upwards of twelve hours' sleep to function. A few weeks ago, he could have easily pounded out this work in a day and a half, maybe two, and still feel rested after a four hour power-nap. Now, he was certain that this work would have to be spread over a week, and that _annoyed_ him. Stephanie told him again and again to cut himself some slack, but slack-cutting wasn't something he knew how to do. He could forgive others---a little bit, sometimes, with a select few---but he'd been trained to be expect a lot from his body. It had rarely failed him, and now that it was, he couldn't help but feel a little resentful.

Even his good days were frustrating, because they weren't good enough. The bad days were worse, because he would tell himself that he would get a certain amount of things done. He'd get halfway through something, feel his energy start to flag, then wake up six hours later, face-first on his desk with a blanket spread over him. Sometimes, Steph said that she'd tried to wake him up, but couldn't. That always made it worse.

Steph slipped his reading glasses down the bridge of his nose, carefully taking them off.

“As much as I like these,” she said, folding them neatly and setting them aside. “They've gotta go. You’re nearing critical stress mass.”

“I don’t have time,” he sighed, scrubbing hard at his temples. He didn’t get headaches often, but when he did they were blinding. Oh, for the days when his body had unnaturally healed small ails like that one without a fuss.

Steph took his hands, kissing his knuckles. "Five seconds? I swear it'll only take five seconds."

He grumbled low in his throat. For once, it wasn't just requisite show. He did want to get things finished before he tired out unexpectedly, and Steph had a habit of distracting him. Damian had been powerless against post-coital afterglows even before the broken deal.

"Fine," he sighed. "What do you want to tell me?"

She pulled up her sweatshirt, pressing his hand to her stomach.

"I think the kicks have gotten strong enough for you to feel," Steph said, grinning. "Thought you'd wanna know."

Damian sat up straighter, touching her belly with his other hand, too.

"Really?" he asked, before he could tamp down his own excitement. He could usually keep it under wraps, cool and collected as a Wayne ought to be, but he'd been waiting for this. Steph had said that she'd felt movement for weeks, but it'd been too faint for him to feel. She'd laughed and said that he would regret wanting to feel the baby's kicks as soon as he got rudely woken up by one, but he disagreed. At least, in concept.

It was one thing to see the changes in her body, but another entirely to grasp the concept of them being due to a child. He'd never been around a pregnant woman, much less one carrying his baby. He couldn't help his fascination---he was still trying to wrap his head around the idea. This was round two for Steph, so the milestones weren't as big for her.

But for him, when he felt a nudge against his palm for the first time, it was all new. A child, his child, the blood heir to the Wayne legacy. A baby who hadn't been created, and who would have two parents. This was incredible to him, and the fact that it had been a complete accident made it even more amazing. He had been bred for a purpose, an unnatural thing, but his child was just going to be _born._ He would place no grand destiny on it. He'd allow him or her to decide who they were, and not dictate to them an ultimate goal.

He would even allow it if they didn't want to fight crime. Being his child was enough. He didn't need to be appeased any further.

"Can you feel it?" Steph asked, and he had to wonder how long he'd just been touching her, silent and awestruck.

"Yes," Damian said, when he could find his voice. "I can. You really are pregnant."

"You're lucky I'm going to ignore that, because my blood pressure is high enough as-is. Putting your face through a wall wouldn't be good for me. This is officially three weeks earlier than anyone could feel my baby's kicks the first time around," she said dryly.

"Well, of _course,_ " he scoffed. "It has half of my genetics. Our child will be a born athlete."

"Greeeeat," Steph sighed, then leaned over and kissed the top of his head. "If I bruise up, I'm taking it out on you and your genetics."

"I would expect nothing less," Damian said, pleased. She kissed him again, and all that important paperwork was abandoned.


	27. You're It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place just before "Saving Water".

Instead of waiting in the Batmobile and listening to the police band while the rain came down, they covered the wet streets on foot. His suit was insulated against mild to moderate weather, and his boots guaranteed sure footing, no matter how slick the pavement was.

The rain swelled the gutters, scrubbing a lot of the pollution out of the air. It still smelled faintly of garbage and wet dog, but the sharp ozone of a gathering thunderhead cut the stench. The first rains of the season were fresh and welcome, but the eventual monotony of Gotham’s rainy months drove some to suicide. That kind of death had always puzzled him---to feel so crushed by the endless gray days that they would rather be dead than continue through the winter was something he had trouble understanding. Death over loss of honor, he understood. He'd seen men kill themselves over losing face. Death over loss of love, he understood. Gotham and its people were beyond his understanding, even though he'd lived there longer than any other place.

Batwoman disappeared over the edge of a building. He jumped after her without bothering to look at what lay far below. Damian loved the free-fall. He hung in the air amid a veil of weightless raindrops, and _breathed._

Dick had complained mightily about the heavy cape when he first donned the Batsuit, but Damian embraced it. In the year he’d been away, he hadn’t worn a costume. A domino mask when necessary, but never a full costume. He had folded up and retired his last incarnation of the Robin uniform before he’d left, and he had no intention of wearing it ever again. Becoming Batman had always been his end goal. He’d neither wanted nor accepted an intermediary.

He’d trained with weighted capes for as far back as he could remember. He’d been prepped for this role since before his birth, so the Batman uniform didn’t fight him. He didn’t have to get used to it, because it felt like it’d always been his. The cape was an extension of himself, as much a part of him as his shadow. It was a weight, yes, but he was used to the balance of it.

Whether or not he deserved to wear it---to _be it_ \---was another question altogether. With Stephanie at his side, he could at least rationalize that he should continue being Batman, if only to match her. It was a shallow reason, but it was reason enough for the days when doubt sucked him down like a tar pit.

He landed much lighter than a man his size and weight should have, since agility had been thoroughly drilled into him. He briefly closed his eyes and listened, trusting his ears more than his eyes in this weather. The rain was coming down in earnest, pattering over his cowl. She was hiding, but she wouldn’t be able to hold her position for long. Winning wasn’t as important to her as a fun, fast-paced chase was, so she flung herself from perfectly good positions just to keep them moving.

His body sizzled with adrenaline. It was a rare feeling, this specific high. This was the predatory awareness of the hunt, but without the lingering fear of becoming prey. He didn’t fear getting caught---there were no repercussions to losing, aside from taking a turn being ‘it’---but that didn’t lessen the sweetness of victory when he caught her. He caught her, then she came after him. She caught him, and then he went after her.

They were playing. He wouldn’t---couldn’t---call it that, but he knew that there was no other name for what they were doing. Damian would have liked to write it off as an impromptu training exercise, but he was having too much fun for it to have been training.

Her suit worked magnificently, as per usual. He had difficulty picking Stephanie out from the shadows – she’d tucked her hair back into her hood, and the material of her suit didn’t reflect light, like leather or vinyl. She sunk into shadows effortlessly, the shine off the metallic curve of the bat on her chest the only thing that gave her away. That, and the sound of her grinning. Her breaths had a soft hiss to them, because she had her teeth clenched in a manic grin whenever she attempted to sneak up on him. He could hear her trying hard not to laugh.

A light tap of her gloved palm on the flat of his biceps. The tread grip pulled at his cape like a kitten’s claws.

“Tag.”

Damian had anticipated the hit, so he surged forward to grab her as soon as she’d tapped him. The fabric was slick---too slick. She slipped out of his hold with a high, rubbery screech and was gone.

“No tagbacks!”

The game was simple and violent. It surprised him that her version of it was more aggressive than the one that he’d been taught. Then again, Grayson had been the one to teach him to play tag, and his adopted brother had tried to slough the aggressive edges off of him. His games had necessitated blunted weapons and practice mats. But Stephanie had played with Cassandra, so she played hard.

He liked her version. Instead of light taps, they exchanged slaps, kicks, and punches. Instead of keeping inside the ‘safe’ zone of the cave, they sprawled rambunctiously over the city. This was the closest thing to fun that he’d had in years. While he enjoyed their chase, he couldn’t forget that it closely paralleled the first time she had bullied him into playing.

It was an odd dynamic. Damian liked remembering how she had been to him when he was young, but he feared that too much nostalgia would color her view of him now. He hated to think that she still saw him as that little boy in need of entertainment---hated to think that she saw him as a boy at all. He didn't want to be given the unexpected surprise that she thought him too young and immature, so he avoided talking about how wide the gap of years had been between them when they'd first met.

Stephanie took as many hits as she gave, which kept their game interesting. She never expect him to go easy on her, so he didn’t. She'd told him once that almost every training session with Cassandra had ended with her vomiting, so it went without saying that she had no problem with taking a beating. In fact, she expected it, and took whatever he dished out---but only because if she waited long enough, he'd leave an opening for her and she'd even their score.

Damian took a running leap, firing his grapple and swinging after her. The rain pelted the lower half of his face, numbing his cheeks, but he paid it no mind. If he lost her in the oppressive gray mist, she'd lord it over him for days. He wouldn't have blamed her, either---he _had_ been trained to assassinate ninja in conditions far worse, so tag was _literally_ child's play by comparison.

The grapple line cut the distance between them; he landed next to her on the highest platform of a rusted old fire escape, his smirk triumphant. The platform rattled with his considerable added weight, but it the look on her face was worth the noise. Before she had a chance to slip away again, he changed his tactics: instead of grabbing, he pushed. Damian more or less pinned her against the rough brick, a gloved hand squeezing the curve of her hip.

Her breath left her in a soft woof of surprise, but she was grinning.

"Tag," he said, and didn't let go. He wasn't all that interested in the game now, and she hadn't fought to elude capture this time around.

She lightly smacked his chest. "Tag."

"You said no tag-backs," Damian pointed out.

 _"You_ don't get to do tag-backs."

He frowned. "That doesn't seem fair."

"You know what isn't fair?” Stephanie said, poking his chest with her index finger. “Your genetics."

 _"Tt._ Yet another stunning argument, Batwoman. You constantly outdo yourself."

She braced her hands on his shoulders, pushing up and planting a kiss on his cold mouth. His lips tingled from the warm pressure.

"So who’s it?" She asked after she’d broken the kiss, her tone back to that playful lilt that meant the game wasn’t finished quite yet.

"I don't know,” he said flatly. “You're the one playing hard and fast with the rules."

“Fine, fine. I’ll be it. You’d better start running, Bats. I’ll give you a three second head start, but I’m coming for your candy ass.”

He found himself reluctant to actually run away. It wasn’t _only_ because retreating wasn’t in his nature. But the game was the game, and she wasn’t ready to quit. So he jumped, grabbed hold of the ledge above them, and swung up a level. Stephanie didn’t have his upper-body strength, so she’d have to take a slower route after him.

When Damian played a game, he played to win. He couldn’t bury his competitive side.

The building was crowned by an old greenhouse. The building was still in use, but the greenhouse had clearly been abandoned for some time---not unusual, after Ivy’s last run on the city. Most had distrusted houseplants for months, since many had lost pets---and children---to the creeping, toothy vines she’d furled through the cracks in Gotham’s streets. Lingering fear and bad memories fueled the paranoia that ran thick in the polluted air.

Greenery and vines wove and knotted over the grimy windows. It had probably been a beautiful greenhouse when it’d been controlled and clean. Now, it was a thicket of orphaned exotics and eerily clouded glass.

And, Damian decided, it would suffice. The door wasn’t padlocked, so he was able to duck inside without a problem. He made sure that Stephanie saw him enter, because his plan wouldn’t work if she spent the rest of the night wandering around searching for him.

The inside of the greenhouse was beautiful, in a remote and lonely way. Plants had merged and strangled each other. A climbing vine crawled up one of the walls in complicated curlicues, white flowers the size of teacups opened up to catch the rainy dribble of moonlight.

“Tag,” Stephanie murmured, wrapping her gloved hand loosely around his wrist. “But I dunno if it counts, since you stopped trying. What, did we find crime? Those azaleas look dastardly, I tell you what. Are you going to slap the batcuffs on those creeping vines, or should I?”

 _“Tt,”_ Damian scoffed, shooting her a sidelong look. “This was a trap, you daft woman.”

“A trap?” she repeated, a hand to her cheek in mawkish surprise. “Oh no, Batman has lured me into a greenhouse, and there is nobody around to see. Whatever will I do?”

“You’ll start by taking this off,” he informed her in a businesslike tone, unfastening her cape from her suit. It fell to the floor in a puddle of black and violet fabric. “As you said, there’s nobody around to see.”

She grinned widely. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to be romantic.”

“Fortunately, you do know better,” Damian said, returning her smirk. She hummed an amused note in response, expertly unfastening his utility belt. Arching up on her tiptoes, she pushed back his cowl.

“We’re not doing it when you’re wearing the bat cowl,” Stephanie said as he ran two fingers down the seam of her hidden zipper. “Because the cowl is not sexy.”

He’d never felt self-conscious about the suit before. _He_ thought that it was impressive. Then again, he’d been memorizing and worshipping its angles and profile since as far back as his memory reached.

“You’ve never said that before,” he said, frowning absently.

“Don’t get your jockstrap in a twist, sweetie. What I mean is, you look imposing and scary-hot and badass when you’re in the full suit, but when it’s just the cowl, it’s---” Stephanie pressed her lips together in an attempt to stifle her laughter, but it failed. It came out as an unladylike snort. “It looks kind of ridiculous.”

“But if we unmask, we run the risk of being caught,” he reminded her.

“With our pants down, yes.”

“I won’t take that chance”

She slowly and very deliberately pulled down his zipper. They both knew that he was all talk. It was very rare that they had any ‘breaks’ like this on patrol, but the week had been quiet. His partner insisted that they would end up following in his father’s footsteps if they didn’t take time to be ‘real people with real feelings’ once in a while, so he regularly capitulated to her ridiculous ideas of what being ‘real people with real feelings’ meant.

He’d found out very unexpectedly that she _enjoyed_ night running more than anyone else he’d partnered with. When Grayson had been in his Nightwing uniform and allowed free, capeless movement, he’d all but flown through the city. This was similar---that simple glee at being able to move, jump, and freefall---but instead of just getting an adrenaline rush, she got...excited. Aggressively so. The first time, he’d been in the middle of saying something when she’d literally jumped on him, arms around his neck and legs wrapped around his middle.

Damian would never admit it, but the idea that they may be seen added an urgency and heat to it that was unique and _good._

“Here’s the plan,” she said, tugging off her gloves. “If we get caught---which we won’t, PS---we pretend we’re super enthusiastically roleplaying. Because Batman and Batwoman are sexy, and who will recognize us? You’re sweaty and a mess. The media probably thinks that Waynes don’t sweat like mortal men. And me? C’mon, _how_ many times have the gossip rags misspelled my name?”

“Four times,” he said, freeing her rain-damp hair from her hood. “Tiffany Browning has been my favorite, so far.”

“Really? I liked Stacy Braun.” Stephanie grinned impishly. “People must think you have a thing for blondes.”

“Perhaps I do,” Damian said, undoing his cape. Their capes would be an adequate blanket, saving them from any wandering vines, thorns, or dirt.

“Oh, Mr. Waaaayne,” she chirped in falsetto, quick fingers pulling the outer layer of his suit down to his waist. Getting out of their uniforms was a chore, since they weren’t meant to be easily removed, but she was preternaturally adept at it. _“Ohhhh.”_

He imagined that it was different for other people, other couples, but the tone that she set was one that he enjoyed. Out of prurient curiosity, he’d watched a number of pornographic films in his mid teens. It had seemed very serious to him, despite the laughable set-ups---roles were clearly defined, and performance was essential. His curiosity had been prematurely snuffed when he’d stumbled upon a parody of caped vigilantes---watching a woman in a familiar catsuit service a pair of men dressed as the Dynamic Duo had seriously confused his erection---but he’d felt that he’d understood sex.

But the real thing was---thankfully---nothing like those films. It wasn’t about performing, and it wasn’t about conforming to any preset role. Mostly, they joked and argued their way through it, just like everything else that they did as partners.

Maybe his father would have been a happier man had he been introduced to the idea of sex being neither a physical release nor compulsive behavior; maybe he would have been ‘a real person with real feelings’ if he had found someone that allowed him to be happy, free of expectations. Fortunately, Stephanie was damned determined to make sure he wouldn’t repeat his father’s mistakes.

She rested her hands on his chest, just taking him in. The scrutiny was warm.

“I know I bitch about it, but sometimes I have to take a minute just to appreciate your stupid superior genetics.”

“Objectifying me? For shame,” Damian said, and began removing her suit---to make it even, of course. He preferred to take his time, because there was something inherently attractive about peeling away that violet-black material and finding luminous pale skin underneath.

“Oh, shut up. You’re a vain bastard, and you like hearing how pretty you are,” Stephanie said, smacking his arm. “Now lean down so I can kiss you. You picked the draftiest abandoned greenhouse in all of Gotham---a solid seven on the nippleometer. So I’m going to need some action to keep warm.”

“That can be arranged,” he assured her, his smirk widening. “You demanding harpy.”

She curled a finger in the elastic band of his jock strap, pulled, and snapped it. “Damn right. Less talking. More making out.”

The rain pattered a discordant rhythm on the arched glass ceiling above them, the air damp and earth-fragrant with the humidity and greenery around them. There was very little in Gotham that could be called _natural_. Even these plants were unnatural, exotics that had been transplanted from other corners of the globe and then abandoned by whoever had been charged with tending them. He could empathize with the feeling. Hadn’t the same thing been done to him?

Damian remembered what Ivy had said about unnatural things---about grafted plants. His thoughts must have surfaced in his features, because Stephanie stopped wrestling with his suit and cupped his face with both hands.

“No brooding,” she commanded, her blue eyes bright and earnest. “Didn't I say more making out? I know that brooding's your go-to emotion when you’re on a rooftop, but I’m not going to play second fiddle to Bat clichés, got it?”

Yes, his father had needed someone like her. Perhaps all Batmen did.


	28. Vows: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final part of "Vows".

“I can’t believe you,” Tim said, and continued to fight Alfred for the pair of good dress socks that he had decided were his. The cat was stubborn as hell and had a taste for fine things, so Tim had no hope of winning. “For a couple of hours, I actually thought that you might stand her up. Hurry up---the wedding’s already behind schedule.”

“Oh, yes,” Damian deadpanned, buttoning his shirt. “Because this would be the thing that would run me off. Stephanie’s pregnancy and Laila’s birth were completely manageable, but standing in front of an assembly and claiming responsibility to them both is too much for me to handle. That is why I handcuffed myself to the cat and fled, leaving my fortune and cowl.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Tim muttered, just barely missing a swipe of Alfred’s claws.

“Really, I can’t believe _you._ You’re the one who spent time in jail today. If Stephanie is going to be angry with anyone, she should be angry with you.”

“That was Jason’s fault.”

“Most things are, in my experience,” Damian agreed, tucking in his shirt. “And I don’t need help dressing myself, you know.”

“Yeah, you’re an adult,” Tim said, sighing heavily. “You’re a father, and you’re getting married. You’re a big boy now. I get it.”

“Give me those,” he growled at Alfred, who growled back, but gave up the socks. Damian sat on the edge of the bed and pulled them on. “I’m glad that you’ve finally accepted that I’m no longer ten years old. It’s only taken a decade and change.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing again.

“I wanted to talk to you before you exchange vows. Are you going to listen to me, or are you going to be a brat?”

“I don’t see why I can’t do both.”

Tim grumbled, leaning over him and adjusting the collar of his shirt. He couldn’t help his compulsions, especially when he was working himself up to say something. Stephanie had spilled that particular secret of his, and now that he saw the tell for what it was, Tim’s nervous habits were transparent. Thus far, fatherhood had been a never-ending exercise in patience, so he had all new levels of tolerance. So, he endured it.

“You have to realize, this is a weird day for me,” Tim began, once he’d found a place to begin. “Steph and I go way back. I---I care about her. Always have. But for you and I, our ‘way back’ is...”

“I beat you within an inch of your life,” Damian said smoothly. “But I’ve apologized.”

“Bull. You never apologized.”

“I’ve thought about apologizing,” he said, shrugging. “If you want to have that conversation, we’ll have it. If you have other conversational avenues that you want to explore, accept my implied apology and continue.”

Tim picked up Damian’s tie and looped it around his neck. He tugged it much tighter than was necessary, then sighed ( _again_ ), and loosened it.

“I stopped looking for an apology five years ago.”

Damian’s chest tightened, but he kept his voice even. “An oddly specific timeframe.”

“It’s not that I forgave you,” Tim said as he expertly knotted his tie. “After the second time you nearly beat me within an inch of my life, I gave up.”

That fight had existed between them, untouched and unremarked upon, for years.

“For that,” Damian said, after a painful silence. “I _am_ sorry.”

Tim’s eyebrows arched, then huddled in confusion.

“Excuse me?”

“I said that I’m sorry for that, Timothy,” he said. His tone was hard, argumentative. Apologies were not something that he could deliver with any real finesse. “And don’t make me say it again. My reaction to you was uncalled for. I knew it then, just as I know it now. I acted out of anger and frustration and---and you weren’t the only one who felt abandoned when Richard left. I knew that it was my fault, and I could not fight my guilt, so I took it out on you. I ran you out of Gotham. That was never my intention.”

Tim finished with his bowtie, then straightened. He crossed his arms, hands tucked against his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I knew that you’d done something to yourself. I knew that I didn’t have a chance in hell against you because you just wouldn’t slow down, so I retreated. But it’s---you know. It’s been a while. Metropolis has been good to me. I don’t regret the move, overall.”

“You knew that I had done something, but you chose not to tell Stephanie,” Damian said, standing. He slipped his cufflinks out of his pocket.

“I probably should have,” Tim admitted. “But she defended your honor until she was blue in the face.”

This took Damian aback. Stephanie had never divulged how the conversation with Drake had gone all those years ago, when she’d left him for a few days and he’d drowned his fears with alcohol.

“Really?”

“Hand to heart, I was a little afraid that she was going to fight me over it” Tim said, with that twitch of a smirk that was private and for _her_. “She started dropping swear words, and you know she only does that when she’s about to throw punches. I didn’t know what she saw in you, but I could tell that it was something. And she---she was in love with you. I didn’t know how to even _process_ that. I couldn’t reconcile the person she was describing to me with the you I knew.”

“You could have told her that she was mistaken,” Damian said. He was trying to imagine this fight---trying to wrap his mind around the idea that she had defended him, back when things were still so new between them. “You could have told her about what I did to you.”

“She wouldn’t have listened,” he said, shaking his head. He looked fond and exasperated all at once. “She’d already decided on who you were, and I could screw myself and my opinion---her words, not mine. I didn’t understand, and I didn’t _want_ to understand, so I divorced myself from the situation. I avoided you at the parties for years.”

“Until the night I was shot.”

“Yeah, well, that was its own thing. That night, I saw you together and really...I don’t know. _Looked_ , for once.” Tim scrubbed his hand through his hair---he was having difficulty finding words, so they were coming out in a stilted jumble. “And I got it. I didn’t understand why she loved you, but I saw that it was real, and that you reciprocated. You’d changed. When she called me up in the middle of the night a couple weeks later and asked for me to come get her, I thought that I’d been right all along, but.” He held the thought, held his breath, then released it. “But here we are. You’re with her, and you’re pledging to be with her for the long haul. And you’re making her my sister-in-law, because you---you’re my brother.”

Damian fiddled relentlessly with his cufflinks, head bowed. Once upon a time, Tim claiming to be his brother had infuriated him. He had resented him for being a child that his father had _chosen_. He had wanted him dead, or in lieu of that, simply gone. He’d hated that he’d staked claim in all the things that he coveted---first his father, then the Robin name, and then Stephanie’s affection.

But once Dick had taken him in, the disconnect between them had chafed. Dick considered both Tim and Damian his brothers, and some small, needy, _childish_ part of himself wanted Tim to acknowledge him, too. But Tim was the most like Bruce out of all of them, and the murder attempt had left the most disastrous of first impressions. He had never accepted him, really.

For any other family, the comment of his wife-to-be becoming his sister-in-law would have been a joke, a jab---who knew that his old girlfriend would end up his sister? But for them, the comment held weight, because it wasn’t about Stephanie’s place between them. It was Tim saying---trying to say, trying to _show_ \---that Damian was his brother.

“Laila is fortunate to have so many uncles,” he said. “Raising her would be---it would be difficult, for someone like me, if I did not have the support of my family.”

Tim nodded. He nodded, and he smiled. “Between Dick and I, you won’t have to worry about her during your honeymoon.”

“One thing at a time, Timothy. I have a wedding to attend before I can think about the honeymoon, and whether or not you’re capable of caring for a baby.” Damian said primly, then turned to get his suit jacket. It’d been left on the bed, which meant that it was now Alfred’s. The cat had stretched himself out to an impossible length and had shed all of his white fur on the black fabric, and all of his black fur on the white fabric. He was disgustingly smug about his accomplishment, too. _“He_ might give you more trouble than the baby.”

“I was afraid of that,” Tim said, as Alfred rolled and stretched and continued to shed.

Damian thought about divulging the cat’s true nature, but he decided against it. If Tim knew that Steph’s ‘furry child’ was a demon familiar, he might rethink his offer to babysit Laila. He was not going to jeopardize his honeymoon, so Tim would have to find out about Alfred’s ‘quirks’ on his own.

No, no. He was going to be a good brother, now. He’d leave him a sticky note on the refrigerator.

He pulled on his jacket and buttoned it, allowing Tim to attack him mercilessly with a lint roller.

“Ready?” Tim asked, once he’d given him a critical once-over for any lingering cat hair.

“Of course.”

Was he? Yes. Yes, of course he was. He was Batman. Batman was prepared for anything.

“Nope,” Dick said cheerfully, leaning in the doorway. “Not ready. You need to shave. No passionate wedding kisses with stubble---there’s rules against it. Tim? The bride’s having a meltdown, and the girls have called for reinforcements. You need to find the baby.”

“Why me?” Tim asked, carding his fingers through his hair in agitation.

“Please tell me that we haven’t lost the baby,” Damian said quickly, feeling a cold spike of panic slip between his ribs. _Him_ getting kidnapped was easily dealt with and solved, but the baby getting kidnapped was unacceptable. When _he_ was in dangerous situations, he did not panic---he knew how to take care of himself. Stephanie, too. But when anything threatened his child, all rationality fled. She was innocent in ways he had never, ever been.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Dick said, waving that idea aside. “She’s with Superman. And we don’t know where he is, so we need someone to find him.”

“So you need me to get Kon to see where Clark puttered off to because...?”

“I’ve been told that it’s a ‘feminine problem’,” said Dick, with air quotes. “And you know what? I’m not going to mess with Steph right now. _You_ can ask.”

“Yeah, _no_ ,” Tim said, and sighed. “This is the most disorganized wedding I’ve ever heard of.”

“And you organized it,” Damian pointed out with a faint smirk.

“Never again,” he said, and went to start the chain reaction of baby-location. “No more weddings.”

As soon as he left the room, Dick whispered, “Famous last words. I already told Steph to aim the bouquet at him.”

 

*

 

The wedding was a small, private affair. They could have had their choice of venue, Wayne money and influence being what it was, but Stephanie hadn’t wanted it to be a highly publicized event. Damian was relieved---not because he had any trouble with being in front of crowds, but because there was a difference between his public and private faces. And this event, to him, was an expression of his private self, even though he did it as the Wayne heir.

If it were a truly public display, it would’ve been a farce. He would have made a political connection to a woman of appropriate background and bearing. She would have been another kind of mask, allowed to have whatever luxuries she desired, but kept at a distance. It would have been what was expected of him, nothing more.

But Stephanie was not that woman, and theirs was not that kind of relationship. Their partnership was as husband and wife, but also as Batman and Batwoman. She was present in all areas of his life, public and private. So, he was relieved that she’d chosen to limit the wedding to those few who existed in both areas of their lives, too---heroes and vigilantes, all. With them, he didn’t have to pretend to be a certain man, marrying a certain kind of woman for certain reasons. They knew why they were together, so keeping up appearances wasn’t necessary.

And he was glad for that, because more than just a marriage ceremony, this was him presenting the relevant sphere of their world with his wife and daughter and claiming them as his. These were his father’s friends and allies---people who had wanted nothing to do with him after Bruce’s death and Dick’s disappearance. The fact that they had shown up to bear witness to his union with Stephanie showed that they were giving him--- _and_ his new family---a chance to be included once again.

After he’d shaved, been inspected by Dick and Tim _again_ , and was informed that the baby had indeed been found, Damian decided to see how bad the meltdown had been. He wasn’t surprised that Stephanie’s patience was wearing thin, given the theatrics of the day.

He hadn’t seen her since the evening before, but between the (horrific) bachelor party, the kidnapping attempt, wandering home without pants, and the talking-tos that Beryl, Jason, Dick Tim _and_ Cass (though, Cass’s talk had been short---her telling him that she wasn’t sorry for breaking his nose, and him agreeing that yes, he had deserved it) had given him, he felt like it’d been much longer than half a day. The bridesmaids had flitted off to finish up the preparations and mingle with the growing number of guests, so Stephanie’s room was quiet as he approached the door. She was humming some soft, toneless nonsense tune that Mother Goose had passed on and Damian had never been subject to during his ‘childhood’. He rapped the doorframe lightly with his knuckles, ducking in before she finished saying, “Come in, but I’m not decent.”

 _“Tt_. Letting strangers see her in a state of undress on her wedding day,” he drawled, taking her in. Stephanie was half-dressed and nursing, a baby blanket draped over her shoulder. “What kind of harlot am I marrying?”

“The best kind of harlot,” she assured him. He was inclined to agree. “But you’re not supposed to see me in my dress before the ceremony, D. I’m a mess.”

He looked at her like she hadn’t been a regular fixture in his life for years---looked at her intently, seeing her for who she was, rather than the idea of her he’d become familiar with. She had her hair artfully curled and pinned back, already wearing her wedding dress---though she’d had to unzip it and wriggle it down to her waist in order to free herself up to nurse. As sunny and childish as she was at times, she was a woman. She was a mother. Sometimes, that made him doubt himself and wonder if he could be as mature as she needed him to be, as her partner. But she was patient with him, and relationships and parenthood both had learning curves.

He sat down next to her, brushing a stray curl from the curve of her neck before kissing her.

“I like you like this,” Damian admitted quietly, because it was just them and the contentedly nursing baby. “Everyone else will see a different version of you out there, but I’m not marrying the Stephanie Brown who will undoubtedly dazzle them. I’m marrying this mess, and I like it.”

“What is this lovey-dovey crap?” she asked, arching an eyebrow and switching Laila to her other breast. “What did your groomsmen do to you last night?”

“It was less their machinations and more a forced epiphany regarding families,” he said. “And I’ll get into the story later, when we have time.”

“Because we need to get to the marrying and honeymooning already.”

“And the breaking things.”

“You _did_ promise me broken things.”

“And I fully intend to keep that promise, too.” He paused, then frowned. “I was told that you’re having a meltdown.”

“Eh, I’m over it already,” Steph said airily. “Long story short, I was overflowing my bra again, and I couldn’t get my dress fastened. But it’s fine---Laila’s got it covered.”

“I’m not complaining, you know,” Damian said, straight-faced.

“Shut up. Boobsplosions have never been a problem with me, okay? Nobody warned me that Wayne babies eat like champs.” The baby finished, and she passed her to him so that she could get her dress situated. “Zip me up?”

He did, taking his time. The drag of his fingertips up her spine made her shiver reflexively.

“And there we are. You fit.”

“Success!” Stephanie crowed triumphantly, adjusting her bra straps. She did fill out the bodice of her dress _nicely_ , but she was no longer in danger of spilling over. The dress was an antique cream color, delicate and simple. It only went to her knees and had a scooped neck, so it bared a lot of her skin. For once, though, she hadn’t bothered to cover her scars. And she _was_ wearing makeup, so the choice to not cover her scarring had been a deliberate one.

“You look...” Damian said, trailing off. He couldn’t finish the thought.

 _“Acceptable,”_ she finished for him, mimicking his usual flat drawl. Still barefoot, she arched up on her toes and kissed him. “Now, let’s do this thing.”

 

*

 

Clark was smitten with the baby. She was, he claimed, able to pull off a Batman-esque pout that looked exactly like her grandfather’s. It hit Damian then---for the shameful first time---that Superman might have missed his father more than he let on. He allowed the alien to bond with his daughter as much as he wanted, feeling it only right. Furthermore, there was no babysitter on earth---or off it---that Laila would be safer with, and with all of the obstacles they’d already dealt with that day, having one less thing to worry about was a blessing.

When the single most unwanted and unexpected guest showed up before the ceremony itself, Damian was glad that Laila was with the Man of Steel. He would have defaulted into panic if Laila had been in anyone else’s arms when grandmother came to call.

He’d prepared himself for it mentally, but that hadn’t been enough. Talia in abstract was never as intimidating as Talia in reality. He’d assumed that their earlier talk had been enough, and that she had pulled him away so that she wouldn’t have to mingle with the superfolk attending the wedding. He’d been incorrect in that assumption. Both she and Gideon arrived shortly before the wedding was about to begin, and their arrival didn’t go unnoticed.

Talia exuded calm and quiet. Conversations cut off mid-word when she passed, the hush rippling around her. Damian could feel all eyes turn to him, waiting for his call.

“Mother,” Damian said in greeting, giving her a cordial nod. His younger brother---his clone, technically---stood a half step behind her, scowling. It was unsettling, seeing a ten year old boy with his exact features. The mannerisms were different, though. They were genetically identical, but Damian had lived a different life. “Brother.”

“So _that_ is the wench you’re marrying?” Gideon sneered, arms crossed over his chest. “Your taste is appalling. It’s an embarrassment to think we share genes.”

Damian opened his mouth to reply, but his wife-to-be laid a calming hand on his arm. Stephanie smiled, hiking up her skirt, and calmly slipped an escrima stick from her garterbelt. She snapped it to full length, then smacked it against her palm.

And she’d made _him_ promise to walk down the aisle unarmed. Hypocrite.

“This wench will kick off her heels and hand you your little elitist butt if you don’t sit down, pipe down, watch us get hitched, and then eat a piece of cake,” Stephanie said, pointing at Gideon with the end of her stick.

Damian swore he saw his mother smile faintly.

“Behave, my darling,” Talia said, her hands on Gideon’s shoulders. “We are guests in your brother’s home. You will not antagonize his bride. Not today.”

“Pointing out her obvious flaws and deficiencies isn’t antagonizing, Mother,” Gideon huffed. “I am merely stating fact.”

“To underestimate an enemy is to give them the upper hand. Underestimate a woman like her and you may very well end up like me someday,” Damian warned him, not sure if he wanted to smirk or shake his brother-clone until he stopped that insipid scowling. There was no way he had been that infuriatingly smug at age ten. No way.

“You have guests to attend to, so we will be brief,” his mother continued.

He recognized the way her fingers flexed into Gideon’s thin shoulders; she dug into pressure points just deeply enough to silence any outbursts. He remembered that warning, and still felt the ghost of that pressure whenever he had to rein in his sharp tongue.

“I’m surprised you came at all,” Damian said, keeping his tone polite and even. His mother would expect nothing less of him, especially seeing as they were under public scrutiny. Keeping up appearances was important to their kind of people. “Moreover, I’m surprised that you didn’t come just to make a point of coming. On behalf of my property value, I thank you for not making an entrance. The rose garden would not have survived a subterranean drill tank visit.”

“I came to see my granddaughter,” Talia said, and his stomach sank down to his loafers. “You wouldn’t deny me the privilege, would you?”

“No,” Steph answered for him. “He wouldn’t.”

And then Damian was aware of Clark suddenly being _there_ , next to him with the kind of blink-and-you-miss-it speed that meant he had taken Laila far, far away the moment he’d seen Talia and had only returned once he’d heard Steph’s okay. Superman’s actions cemented his standing as the most appropriate caretaker for his daughter, Damian felt.

He took Laila from Clark, cradling her against his shoulder for a few moments before he allowed his mother to touch her. His hesitance surprised even him, but it made a certain amount of sense.

Talia took her gently, mindful of her head, and stroked back her fuzz of black hair. Laila watched her grandmother owlishly, gumming on her fingers with pensive little mumbles.

“She looks like you, _habibi,”_ his mother said in an undertone. “Save for the ears and nose. And that is lucky for her, as you didn’t grow into your ears until you were halfway to manhood.”

Gideon scowled deeply, scrunching his shoulders up like a turtle retreating into his shell. And, Damian had to admit, now that he had an outside perspective, she was right. Superior genetics or not, he’d had big ears.

“She was fortunate to take after her mother’s features,” he said, with emphasis on _her mother_. Stephanie hung back, and he knew that she was remembering the ferocious fight he’d had with Talia over the phone, weeks before Laila’s birth. He did _not_ want her to feel like half of the things his mother had insinuated---not on what was meant to be a special day, and not ever---so he put his arm around her waist.

 _This is my partner, and you cannot ignore her any more than you could ignore my ‘circus boy’._

“So she was,” Talia said blandly, and nodded to Gideon. “Would you like to hold your niece?”

Gideon---still not-so-nonchalantly covering his ears---shot a glance at Talia, and then one at Damian. It was a calculating look, but mixed with genuine curiosity.

“If I must,” he said, and mimicked the way that Talia had been holding Laila. He was incredibly careful with her, all that bluster covering up his interest in the burbling, peach-cheeked baby.

She reached for his face and he drew back instinctively, like she’d attempted to bite him.

 _“Tt,”_ Gideon said, which made Laila giggle. _“Tt,”_ he said again, which made her giggle all the louder. When she reached up for his face again, he allowed her to touch him, his brow bunched with fascinated puzzlement.

He stared at her, obviously trying to understand _what_ it was that he was holding.

To her credit, Laila just gurgled and drooled a bit.

“Take her,” he said suddenly, a note of strain in his voice. “She’s _leaking.”_

“Drooling,” Damian corrected, and was possibly a little too relieved to take his daughter back. He passed her to Stephanie, who tucked her against her chest protectively.

“She has changed you,” Talia said, and he couldn’t tell if she was looking at or referring to Laila or Stephanie---or both.

They had changed him. He knew that.

The first time that he’d held Laila, Damian had faced the sudden realization that he’d _loved_ her, despite the fact that she’d smelled and looked like some kind of cross between an alien and a tomato. He’d loved her horribly and obsessively and she hadn’t done anything to deserve it other than cry in his arms and look a little bit like him, under the blood and the mess. If someone had told him either he lived or the baby, he would have given his life for his daughter right then and there. Death and birth were both messy, ignoble things, but death was an eventuality and birth was ab impossible miracle that he’d never experienced before.

She was _his_ little blue-eyed alien-tomato, and in that first moment he had loved her so much it had the potential to be destructive.

Nobody had told him that being a father would be anything like that. He hadn’t been prepared, because his birth had never been something his parents had witnessed or vilified. At least everyone else had been too concerned with tending to the exhausted mother to notice the big scary Batman crying soundlessly over his newborn daughter, too full of fear and love and everything else to know which way was up anymore.

He’d wondered if his father had felt that way with any of the children he had adopted. He’d wondered if his relationship to his parents would have been different if they had held him the way he’d held his daughter, the first person to do so. But wondering was a waste of energy. He was no longer a boy---no, he was a father himself now. He’d decided that his energy would be put into her, and not into ghosts. She would never have to wonder as he had. That had been his promise to his tiny, screaming child, and he’d done his damnedest to keep it.

“Yes,” Damian said, watching his clone-brother-self dab drool from his jacket. “For the better, I believe.”

 

*

 

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the marriage of Damian and Stephanie. Today is the day that they will formally and publicly make their promises to one another. Although this is indeed a high point, marriage is a journey, not a destination. Marriage is more than any one single event or promise. It is a series of decisions that have been made, and will continue to be made over and over again, every day...”

The justice of the peace droned. It wasn’t that the sentiments weren’t touching, but just that Damian had heard them several times before, and with his memory that meant that he knew the speech word for word. He was more focused on everything _else_ around him: the spread of people seated in the garden (specifically, where his ‘trouble’ spots were vs. where Clark, Lois, and the baby were), the exact placement of his mother and brothers (Tim, Jason, Colin and Dick behind him, Gideon and Talia in the front row), the bridesmaids and their spectrum of expressions (Kara was sniffling, Beryl could hardly keep still, Cassandra radiated quiet zen, and Barbara was giving him the time-honored critical laser eyes), and the woman standing across from him.

He’d been correct when he’d said that the Stephanie Brown who would walk down the aisle would be a different woman than the Stephanie Brown who had declared herself a mess not an hour before. Rather, they were flip sides of the same woman---one polished and one casual, but both appealing.

“Your little brother is creeping me out,” Steph whispered, eyes flicked to the side to peer at where Gideon and Talia were sitting. “He looks and sounds _exactly_ like you did at that age. I am tripping out on nostalgia over here.”

“Take that back,” Damian whispered back, frowning. “There is no way on earth I was even a third so frustrating and egotistical.”

“Can’t take back the truth. It’s weirding me out.”

“Impossible. You would never have befriended me had I been that obnoxious.”

“The fact that I’m marrying you today is proof that I’m a saint.”

Damian paused.

“Was I really that bad?”

“Really.”

His disbelief bubbled over. _“Why_ did you stay with me?”

“Because you were a kid who needed a friend,” she said quietly. “And despite appearances, I needed one, too. You kind of grew on me over the years, and what the heck. I wasn’t getting any younger.”

“You settled on me.”

She smiled placidly, nodding. “This is me, settling.”

“My already profound respect for you has deepened dramatically today, Mrs. Wayne.”

“I’m not your batwife yet,” Stephanie whispered, her eyes very bright. “You have to kiss me first, idiot.”

The justice cleared his throat.

Half of the audience was smiling in such a way that he _knew_ they’d heard what they were saying. There was no such thing as whispering when most of the people in attendance either could easily read lips or had super-hearing.

Stephanie beamed relentlessly back at them.

“Today is the public affirmation and acknowledgment of all that you are to each other,” the officiant said, smiling indulgently. “Seemingly, your relationship will be as it has always been, yet there is a power in the spoken word. May that power bring you all the warmth and closeness, security and comfort, joy and happiness that this world has to offer. May I have the rings, please?"

Dick took the little velvet box out of his pocket. As the best man, he’d been charged with keeping the rings safe, and they were the one important item he _hadn’t_ lost that day.

The justice passed the rings to Damian and Stephanie, saying, “The couple has prepared their own vows, and they will recite them now.”

“I, Stephanie Brown, take you, Damian Wayne, to be my partner---loving what I know of you, and trusting what I do not yet know. I eagerly anticipate the chance to grow together, getting to know the man you will become, and continuing our adventures. I promise to love and cherish you through whatever life may bring us.”

She slid the wedding band on his finger, the simple gold ring cool and foreign. He’d never worn jewelry before, so it would take some getting used to. He knew that he’d twist it around thoughtlessly, glancing at it often and remembering what it meant.

“I, Damian Wayne, take you, Stephanie Brown, to be my lawfully wedded wife, my friend, my partner and my love from this day forward. In the presence of our family and allies, I offer you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, and in victory as well as defeat. I promise to love you, to support you in your goals, to honor and respect you, and to cherish you for as long as we both shall live.”

Her ring was simple, because lavish wealth never had set well with her---and likely never would. She didn’t need or like gaudy things, so he’d decided on something meaningful instead of something that would be seen as a status flag. Purple-hued diamonds were rare in nature, but not unheard of, so he’d chosen a solitaire setting in platinum. It wasn’t a traditional ring, but nothing much about them _was_ traditional. Her smile said that she was very happy with his taste, as per usual.

“You may kiss your bride,” the justice said. Damian pinched her gauzy veil between his fingertips, carefully drawing it back.

And he hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to kiss her---how to make it more meaningful than the many other significant kisses that they’d had, how to judge what was appropriate in front of the assembly, how to convey that it was in and of itself a promise.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Stephanie grinned.

She reached up, cupped his jaw with both hands, and dragged him down for a thorough kiss. Stephanie attacked everything in her life with force and determination, and this was no different. He leaned down so that she didn’t have to strain---even in heels, he loomed over her---and accepted that as far as she was concerned, he was the bride in this arrangement.

And, Damian decided as the guests broke out in applause, he was okay with that.


	29. Allegories with Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place before "You Shouldn't be Mean to Girls".

When the day started winding down and the night began to fall, the Wayne household switched gears. During the day, it was the ancestral home of the Wayne family, which currently numbered four---more family members than the house had held in decades. Dick Grayson had been adopted by Bruce Wayne, and Bruce's son, Damian, had taken Stephanie Brown as his wife. Together, they'd had a daughter, Laila. The media imagined a whole fleet of nannies and tutors raising the girl, but the truth of the matter was that the Waynes did not allow outsiders into their home. All child-rearing was done by them---and the revolving door of doting uncles and aunts---so there wasn't anyone to hand Laila over to when they changed into their evening clothes.

Putting Laila to bed was a group effort. It happened in stages, and it had a certain routine. She was herded into the bathtub by whoever lost the coin toss, was told to brush her teeth no fewer than four times, got into her pajamas, and crawled into bed to be read to before was tucked in. Someone always stayed behind to watch over her---even with the best security imaginable, they didn't trust the baby of the family to the Wayne luck---so one of the patrolling pair would give her a bedtime story before they took off for the night.

Damian always dreaded it when it was his turn to put Laila to bed. It wasn't that he disliked reading to her, or didn't enjoy having some time with her just to himself. He just...he wasn't that _good_ at telling stories.

"We're out of books," Damian said after Laila's plea for 'just one more story' had exhausted the entire stack. "You know that I don't read the same book twice in one night."

"Uncle Jason does," Laila said, her mouth bunched into a frown.

He felt a sharp twinge of irritation. Of course Jason would be the one to find and break each and every one of his rules.

"I'm _not_ Uncle Jason."

"Just one more?" She wheedled, going into a full-blown-lip-trembling-pout.

"All done," Damian declared, stacking the thin hardcover books on her nightstand. "No more books."

"Make one up!" She said, smiling hugely at the brilliance of her own scheme. "You can make up a story, Father! Mama does sometimes."

"Mama gets tired of re-reading 'The Spooky Old Tree,'" he said, unmoved. "Or did, until 'The Spooky Old Tree' disappeared."

Changing tactics, Laila clasped her hands together beneath her chin and gave him a gaptooth grin. "Pleeeeeease, Father?"

His daughter was a cunning negotiator. Damian sighed and sat back down on the edge of the bed. _His_ father had never known the difficulties of putting a high-energy future vigilante to bed before he went out to patrol. Though he could never nail down how long it would take to tuck her in, he didn't mourn the punctuality of his old routine. Since Laila's birth, he hadn't once forgotten why he did what he did as Batman. Protecting the innocent was no longer an abstract concept to him now that he had an innocent of his own.

"Just one, _habibti._ One story, and then you must go to sleep."

Laila quickly crawled obediently into bed. She pulled the covers up to her nose. "I'm ready."

Damian wasn't much of a storyteller. Not compared to Stephanie and Dick. Stephanie could weave fantastical tales of princesses in butt-kicking boots, expertly putting together only the most ridiculous elements. They were terrible stories, full of 'and then's and wild arm waving, but Laila listened to them raptly. Dick told old world hand-me-down fables and warped variations of Disney classics. He used toys as props, and got much more involved with the story than any man pretending to be a Disney princess should. Damian didn't have any stories from his childhood---none that were appropriate for his daughter. It was rare that he went off-book.

"Once upon a time," Damian said, because that was where everyone thought a beginning should be. "There was a prince."

"What kind of prince?" Laila prompted. She wouldn't be letting him get away with telling a subpar story.

"A…young prince," he said, stalling. "One raised in a far-off land where the days are very hot and the nights are very cold. The Prince knew little of his kingdom and its people, because he was kept cloistered away. From the moment he was born, he was told that one day he would be the King."

Laila dragged her favorite stuffed animal---a much-loved, much-repaired bat with a crowbar---under one arm. "King of what?"

A very good question. Damian cast a sweeping glance over the bedroom for any kind of inspiration. He went with the first thing that he saw---a birdwatching encyclopedia that Tim had given her for Christmas.

"The birds."

"King of the _Birds?"_ She asked incredulously.

"The Bird-People," he amended. "They, ah. Had wings."

"Ohhh," Laila said, her eyes rounding. "Okay."

"Yes. Well. This Prince was raised thousands of miles away from his kingdom. He was told stories of the Bird-People and their mighty King, but he had never seen either of them for himself. In fact, there was no one around him who was like him---not even his mother. She told him that to be greater than his father, the King, he would have to never rely on his wings. The King's wings were huge---large, and black, and impressive. _He_ was impressive. But the Prince was still a boy, and so his wings were an oddity. The nannies who cared for him laughed at his tiny, downy gray wings, so as he grew older he hid them."

As the story spilled out of him, he realized that it wasn't much of a _story_ , but it was the only one he knew how to tell---and never did.

"The Prince bound his wings so that he would not be seen as different."

"Did it hurt?"

Damian paused. Thought about it. "Yes. But he knew nothing else, so he accepted the discomfort that came with hiding who he really was. He was an excellent fighter, and he could jump and somersault through the air without the use of his wings. He thought that he was better than anyone else, justifying that he was stronger than the lazy Bird-People who did nothing but hover around like pigeons."

"He sounds like a brat," Laila said, stroking the top of Crowbat's head.

"But he _was_ much more advanced than any of his peers, and---" At his daughter's stubborn look, he sighed. "And he was something of a brat, yes. But it wasn't the Prince's fault. He had been isolated for his entire life, so he didn't know how to interact with others. One day, after many years of yearning, he finally got to meet the King and his court."

Laila sat up a little. She'd been a tough sell at first, but she was into the story. "Really?"

"Yes," Damian said, with a hint of a self-effacing smirk. "There was the King---"

"With the big black wings!"

"---Precisely. He was the head of the flock. The eldest, Nightingale, had brown wings like a chat. Like his namesake, he was chatty to a fault, but he was very kind. The second-eldest was Jaybird, who had fallen from the nest before his time. His wings were damaged, so he could no longer fly with the others. The youngest male Bird-Person was the Red-Winged Blackbird---the King's newest acquisition, but his dearest. The two female Bird-People hung to the outskirts of the flock, like Jaybird. One was the Black Falcon, a fierce warrior who spoke very little. The other was the Starling. Her wings were a flashy purple, but she couldn't sing or fight like the others. She could mimic them---which she did, poorly---but she wasn't very special on her own."

"But her wings were pretty?" Laila asked, overly concerned with the hypothetical outsider. He wasn't surprised.

"They were bright, and they caught the sunlight magnificently," he said, nodding. "But she couldn't hunt with the flock, so they treated her as a nuisance. _She_ didn't think they were beautiful."

"And the Prince fell in love with her wings."

"You're getting ahead of yourself," Damian said, though he couldn't help his snort of a laugh. "Are you telling the story, or am I?"

"Tell it _better_ ," she whined, wriggling her legs underneath the covers. "Starling has pretty purple wings and the Prince is going to fall in love with her."

"All in good time," he promised. "But at first, the Prince was a brat. He hadn't known that the King had others that he loved and considered his children. The Prince was jealous of all of the other Bird-People---jealous of how happy and kind they were, and how big their wings were. He had kept his bound for so many years, they were stunted. Twisted."

Laila went very still, her lower lip pushing up in a sympathetic pout.

"The King rejected the Prince. He told him that he couldn't be a part of the flock because---because he could not fly. The Queen had crushed the Prince's wings, so the King told him to leave. The Prince was angry---angry and confused. So he decided that he would make space for himself and prove that he didn't need to fly. He attacked Red-Winged Blackbird and tried to push him out of the nest."

The little girl put her hands over her mouth to keep her gasp pent up.

"He hurt Red-Winged Blackbird. Badly. The King sent him away, but the Prince didn't have anywhere else to go. The King disappeared soon after that, and Nightingale took his place as the King. Nightingale could tell that the Prince wanted to be a part of the flock more than life itself, and he believed that if he took care of the Prince, he could heal him. He didn't think that his wings were ruined, since he was young and still growing. Nightingale wanted to help him, so he cut off all of the bandages and started training him to stretch his wings."

Damian smiled absently. Much of who he was as an adult was thanks to the kindness of Dick Grayson---or at least due to his hesitance at setting him out free into the wild.

"But it hurt. Strengthening his wings was a painful process, and the Prince had very little patience for it. When Nightingale was flying on his own, the Prince snuck away to patrol like he used to. That was when he ran into Starling."

Laila squeaked, clapping her hands.

"The Prince was jealous of her wings. Even though the King had kept her at the outskirts, she could still fly---which he, true royalty, could not. Starling could tell, and instead of being angry at his insults, she was…" Damian's jaw worked as he tried to find the right word. "…Sad. She was sad for him, because he didn't know how enjoyable flying could be. The others treated him as though he were incapable of it, but she realized that the problem was that he didn't know _how_ to fly."

"Did she show him?"

"She tried, but he didn't want to listen to her. 'Flying is too much like falling,' the Prince said. And the Starling said---"

"Voices, Father," Laila interrupted. "You hafta do all the voices."

"All of the voices?"

 _"Uncle Dick_ does all the voices."

And again with the uncles. If only she had fewer, maybe he would have a leg to stand on in any argument with her. Since she had an entire flock to choose from, he never got around their rule-bending.

"I'm not Uncle Dick," he reminded her, frowning.

"But Father," Laila said, frowning back. "You do the voices _better_ than Uncle Dick!"

Damian grumbled, but his daughter got her way---as usual. He cleared his throat, then started again. He couldn't hit the register for truly believable female voices the way he had been able to pre-puberty, but he could affect them well enough for a bedtime story. Besides, there was only one female voice that he would be mimicking, and Laila knew the tones and inflections of that voice well enough to get the point across.

"And the Starling said, 'I know, right? Flying's hard. It's a lot of work, and sometimes walking's easier. But y'know what? The world's beautiful up here.'"

"And when you're flying, you don't have to do it alone," Starling---who was, of course, Stephanie---said from the doorway. She was in her Batwoman uniform sans mask. When bedtime stories went on for too long, the already-dressed partner would come in for a final tucking in. They had a system. As parents to the World's Greatest Negotiator, the had to. "Because like it or not, buster, you're already a part of this flock."

"Is that really what she said?" Laila giggle-whispered to him.

"Word for word," Damian assured her. "And the Prince called her a fat cornish hen and told her to leave him alone. But she didn't, and little by little she showed him what she'd meant about being a part of the King's flock."

"You said that they fell in love, Father," she said as Stephanie leaned over and tucked Crowbat in next to her. "Did they?"

"Yes. She saw him for the person he was, in spite of who he was at the time."

"And that's love," Stephanie agreed. "The Prince became the King, and he and Starling made a lot of gross kissyfaces at each other."

"Like this one," Damian added, giving Stephanie an appropriately gross kissyface. Laila groaned.

"And they built their own nest, and neither of them ever had to fly alone again," she finished, kissing the top of Laila's head. "And everyone lived happily ever after. Now get some shut-eye, baby bird, and we'll see you in the morning."

"'Night, Mama. 'Night, Father." Taking a deep breath, she shouted _"NIIIIIGHT, UNCLE DICK!"_ at the top of her little lungs. She got a faint answering yell of _"I already checked the closet and under the bed, kiddo! Niiiiiiight!"_ from down the hall.

"Goodnight," Damian said, following Stephanie to the door.

Just before he closed the door behind him, he could hear Laila whispering to her small army of stuffed companions.

"See? I told you, Crowbat. Father tells the _best_ stories."


	30. Meet the Parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after "Diversion Tactics".

Terry McGinnis was pretty much convinced that he had the best girlfriend in the world. Sure, most guys in happy relationships thought that about their girlfriends, but Terry had solid, undeniable proof that he’d somehow landed a perfect ten. Laila was gorgeous---and okay, maybe he was kind of biased because she was _his_ girl---and so low-drama, he didn’t know what to say when his male friends complained about whoever it was they were hooking up with that week. She wasn’t a nag, she wasn’t clingy, and she wasn’t obsessed about herself and all her girl problems---something that’d baffled him with everyone else he’d dated. Laila didn’t stress about her grades, didn’t stress about her looks, and didn’t stress out if she felt they weren’t spending enough time together.

Which, Terry felt, kind of made him the textbook insecure girl in their relationship. _He_ was the one who texted her first, the one who worried irrationally when she canceled dates or stood him up---and she pulled that crap a lot, too. He’d been dating her for half of his high school career, and he knew that he had to be in love with her or something, because he stomached her excuses time and time again. Laila was pretty, Laila was clever, and Laila somehow got away with being quietly mysterious.

In the years since she’d first asked him out, Terry had learned two main truths about Laila: that she was smarter than her test scores let on, and that her family gave her a blank check to be as mysterious as she wanted to be. Because Laila was a Wayne, and not even her dutiful boyfriend of two years got to get too close. He was dating the richest girl in Gotham, so he had to deal with certain rules and regulations. Terry hated it, since the implication was that her family didn’t trust him not to date her for her money, but her dad was a real hardass, and paranoid as hell. He understood why they had to keep that distance, why people with serious dough had to be extra careful, but he didn’t _like_ that this translated to not being included in two-thirds of his girlfriend’s life.

So, when Laila announced out of the blue that her family wanted him to come to their Friday night dinner, he was shocked. Shocked, and instantly panicked.

Damian Wayne, Laila’s father, had a rep. Terry’s own father worked for Wayne Industries, and had paled when Terry had told himthat he was seeing the Wayne heiress. Both his mom and brother and his dad had loved Laila when they’d met her, and she was included in family functions with both of his divorced parents. But, according to his dad, Laila’s quiet warmth was the polar opposite to her father’s personality. Mr. Wayne was a huge philanthropist, but also a ruthless businessman. He took no prisoners, and when it came to protecting the company he’d inherited he was downright vicious. Rumor had it that the first time he’d ripped apart an embezzling board member, he’d been ten years old. Mr Wayne was a legend---man of the year three times.

And now, he finally wanted to meet the boy courting his baby girl. Terry was justifiably terrified. Laila’s only instructions were “be ready by six, wear a tie, be yourself, and don’t freak out.”

Easier said than done.

But Terry was as ready as he’d ever be by five, and yelling at his brother for forty-five minutes about what he and Laila did or did not do while sitting in a tree helped drain some of his anxiety. A car---a sleek black car with tinted windows and a for-real chauffeur---showed up ten ‘til, and he was ready for it. He knew that meeting her parents had to happen sooner or later, but that didn’t make him any less stressed.

What would he do if her family hated him and told him to back off? Would he conveniently disappear if he told her old man to stuff it? Terry wasn’t exactly _someone_ as far as Gotham’s elite was concerned: he was a middle-class kid with divorced parents, with average grades and a stay in juvie under his belt. He’d gotten off easy by what he considered freak circumstances, but facts were facts, and Terry McGinnis had a record.

Maybe Mr. Wayne wouldn’t know. Maybe he’d get off lucky. Maybe he’d get a pat on the back and a handshake and a threat or two. He could handle that. That was pretty standard stuff.

The drive to Crest Hill took about fifteen minutes, and the drive from the front gate of the Wayne Manor to the house itself took three minutes all on its own. During this time, he’d slid lower and lower in his seat, to the point that he could only peer tensely over the top of the door. _This_ made him more nervous than his hearing. Mr. Wayne was, in theory, scarier than any judge, and had equal or greater control over his future. So he’d hoped that Laila would be at the front door, waiting for him with another pep-talk primed, but Mrs. Wayne was there, not Ms. Wayne.

Terry had seen her on television, always in a resplendent dress at some fancy-schmancy event for rich people. He’d never paid much attention to her, and all of his knowledge of her was what was on her wikipedia page---and come on, if your girlfriend and her family had a wikipedia page, of _course_ you’d read it---and the rare stories that Laila shared about her mother.

Meeting Mrs. Wayne was the first of his many heart attacks that night, because he’d met her before.

“M---Ms. Brown?” Terry stammered, as soon as the door flew open and revealed a small, broadly-smiling blond woman.

“Been keeping up with your econ homework, Terry?” His third period teacher asked, and he frantically tried to dredge up an answer past all of the _what the hell_ s that were clogging up his head.

“Bu---I---I mean, yeah, but---”

“Because Laila’s been tutoring you. I know. She asked me if I thought that was cheating, and with your test scores in mind, I gave her my blessing,” Ms. Brown-who-is-also-Mrs. Wayne said, her blue eyes very bright. The Stephanie Wayne from red carpet events had been sleek and sophisticated, nobody he would ever had known. Stephanie Brown was a part-time high school teacher who wore baggy sweaters, no makeup, and her hair in a messy braid. She was loud, and not even the biggest meatheads in class intimidated her. Her class was one of his worst subjects, but Ms. Brown had always been a solid teacher.

“So you’re...?”

“Ms. Brown, the super high school sub who is secretly billionaire Stephanie Wayne in disguise,” Mrs. Wayne said with a cheeky grin, gesturing for him to come inside. “I make a terrible bored, rich housewife, so I moonlight as an educator and take no pay. Have to use that degree for something, right? I go by my maiden name, just to make things easier.”

Terry followed her in, still flabbergasted. “And that’s why Laila couldn’t take econ with me.”

“And that’s why Laila couldn’t take econ with you, yes. Here, you---” Mrs. Wayne adjusted his tie and smoothed down his lapel, aggressively friendly. “There. Better.”

“Thanks,” Terry said, because he didn’t know what else to say. Didn’t most bored housewives take up charitable hobbies or go to spas? He’d always thought it kind of strange that Laila chose to go to a public high school, but the idea of her rich-as-rich-could-be mother ‘slumming’ as a teacher was even weirder.

“You’re welcome. Dinner won’t be for another half hour or so. Laila’s supervising her brothers, but the hubby wants to have a word with you before the rest of the family shows up,” she said, and he nodded. Her uncles---Laila mentioned them often. “His office is down the hall and to the left. And Terry? Don’t let him bully you. Be yourself, and don’t freak out.”

“Don’t let him bully me, and don’t freak out,” he repeated, nodding.

“Oh, and for the love of God, _don’t_ say that _anything_ is schway. He can’t stand slang.”

“Ex-nay on the schway. Got it.”

She gave his shoulder a squeeze, then left to presumably help her kids with dinner. He was about to follow her directions---marveling at how _huge_ the house was, and wondering how far down the nearly endless hall he was supposed to go---when he heard the low, familiar growl.

Terry had hoped that Ace was an outside dog. He should have known better.

Terry and Ace had a relationship that was almost as complicated as the one between Terry and Laila. They were mutually respectful of each other...for the most part. Ace took ‘guard dog’ to a whole new level, and he took every opportunity to remind Terry that he had an eye on him. He was half Great Dane and half Rottweiler, so his growl-threats were fairly intimidating.

“Look,” he said, when the dog growled again, this time a little louder. “I’m not taking crap from you today. Don’t try me, mutt. You won’t win this time.”

But Ace called bullshit on that, and Terry was inclined to agree. He briefly---frantically---toyed with the idea that Ace might actually bite him, since he was a stranger in his home. He would have explored the horrifying mental image of his girlfriend’s crazy dog ripping his arm off, but there was a sharp hiss and a yelp that tore him out of that worse case scenario.

Ace had his head hunkered down low, hunched over. A black and white cat had swatted him across the nose, and instead of snapping, Ace was cowering. The dog was at least four or five times bigger, but the cat was fearless---its tail lashed, but it didn’t puff up aggressively.

It was hilarious. Ace shot him dirty look and slinked away, growling only when he was out of the cat’s swiping-range.

Said cat was grooming himself negligently, like the badass it was.

“You? You I like,” he told the cat, who started up a rusty purr and rubbed against his leg. The cat padded to the office door and pushed it open, slithering inside Mr. Wayne’s study without an invitation. As far as he could tell, the cat owned the place.

Terry adjusted his tie for the hundredth time, took a deep breath, and followed his furry spirit guide inside the dim office.

Mr. Wayne was bigger in real life than he seemed when viewed on television or in pictures on the internet. He had to be at least 6’3”, and he was built like a linebacker. He wore a snug black turtleneck and black slacks, cleancut and nondescript. He seemed to blend into the shadows, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He was looking out the window behind his desk, like he hadn’t heard Terry come in. Laila had taken after him in looks and bearing, but the quiet that she exuded was warm and calm. Mr. Wayne’s quiet was the silence of a shark.

He was imposing without even trying to be. He just kind of loomed.

“Tell me about yourself, Terrance,” Mr. Wayne said, but it wasn’t an invitation. It was an instruction---something like a test, like he was going to judge him based on what he offered vs. what he left out. Terry fully believed that Mr. Wayne had given him ten kinds of background checks. He had the money to dig through whatever he wanted to, and Laila _was_ an heiress.

But Mrs. Wayne had told him not to let Mr. Wayne bully him, and Terry wasn’t one to put up with assholes trying to intimidate him, anyway.

“It’s Terry,” he said, coolly unmoved. “Senior at Gotham Heights, B-minus average, Laila’s boyfriend two years strong. I’m guessing that you’re looking for my annotated list of teenage faults, so I’ll get those out in the open. I’ve been fired from two part-time jobs, my parents are divorced, I spent some time in juvie, and I call my little brother a dweeb. Since, well. He’s a dweeb.”

He took a measured breath, then offered his hand to be shaken.

“It’s good to finally meet you, sir.”

It was hard to tell, but he swore he saw the corner of Mr. Wayne’s mouth twitch with the idea of a smirk. He shook his hand, his grip strong and his palm weirdly callused for a businessman’s hands. He _did_ look like he slept on a bench press, though, so maybe that was something to take into account.

“Three days is hardly ‘some time’ in juvenile detention, Terry,” Laila’s father said, confirming his suspicions. He’d taken the time to learn all there was to know about him. “You were exonerated of the charges.”

“Yeah, well,” Terry hedged, really uncomfortable with where the conversation was headed. He wasn’t ashamed of his mistakes, because he knew he’d grown past them, but he didn’t enjoy having thorough discussions of all the ways he sucked. “It was complicated.”

Mr. Wayne took a seat at his desk, gesturing to the chair across from him.

“Tell me about it.”

And that was definitely a command. He had to repeatedly swallow down his urge to meet that with rebellion. Terry didn’t put up with authoritative bullshit very well---he had a mild allergy to it. Unfortunately, he couldn’t mouth off. If he wanted to continue to be Laila’s boyfriend (and avoid the possibility of disappearing forever), he had to just grin and take it.

Terry eased himself into the chair. His fingers drummed a nervous tempo on his kneecaps.

“I was fourteen,” he said, not blinking under Mr. Wayne’s sphinx-like stare. “Made some bad choices, and made some bad friends. I trusted some people I shouldn’t have, and ended up an accidental drug mule. I honestly had no idea that I had junk in my backpack, but the officer who caught me didn’t believe me. I got thrown under the bus, and those bad friends of mine almost succeeded in saddling me with the blame and the jail time.”

“Almost,” Mr. Wayne repeated thoughtfully. It made his faint British accent much more obvious. Was he from England? Had Laila ever told him where her father had been raised? Had Laila told him anything at all about her father, really?

“Yeah, uh,” Terry stalled, trying to scrounge up what to say next. Mr. Wayne had to have _really_ dug, to be prompting him the way he was. He’d been positive that nobody outside of his family and the people in the courthouse that day had known about the surprise witness that’d saved his bacon, but this was real proof that money got answers. “I guess that my drug-dealing ‘friends’ had been active enough---or sloppy enough---to get the Bats’ attention. So, when I got stabbed in the back, the Batman’s little friend saw it happen.”

“The Batman’s ‘little friend’,” Mr. Wayne echoed again. It was paired with another one of his twitchy almost-smirks.

“Yeah, you know,” he said, gesturing with a turn of his wrist and half a shrug. “Batman’s sidekick. Robin. He’d seen the whole thing go down, and he testified against my not-so-friendly friends. Superhero testimonies in court either get thrown out or ignored, but they listened to Robin. And that’s my big sordid secret past, Mr. W. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Mm,” said Mr. Wayne, chin on his folded hands. “I don’t think that’s true. That isn’t the only interaction that you’ve had with Robin, is it?”

Terry suddenly felt like his veins were chugging ice water.

Holy _shit_ , whoever he’d hired to get dirt on him had been _good_.

“I---” he had to swallow. His mouth was so dry, it might as well have been stuffed with sawdust. “---a couple of days ago, I ran into the Robins. It was---I dunno, it was just this freak accident. And it’s, uh, not the same Robin that bailed me out. This is the one with the clone or whatever.” He had to pause again. “Anyway. The Robins were fighting against a couple of the Jokerz, and the odds weren’t in their favor. I know that they’re all supposed to be kung fu masters, but the way I saw it, it was two boys against a half dozen spliced-up freaks. I wasn’t just going to watch them get the snot beat out of them. I owed the other Robin, anyway, so it was really...”

“Circle of Life,” Mr. Wayne said, and this time his smile was actually visible.

Terry nodded slowly.

With a chirped meow of greeting, the tuxedo cat that had made Ace its bitch hopped lightly onto his desk. He scratched the cat’s chin, then glanced over Terry’s shoulder.

“Boys?” He called, and Terry turned to look at the door. “You may come in now. I believe that you had something you wanted to say to Mr. McGinnis.”

The study door basically burst open, two gangly boys tripping over each other to get in first. They pushed, shoved, and squabbled. One grabbed the other’s cape and pulled it over his head. Then he scrambled to his feet and snapped a sharp salute---which lasted all of three seconds before his twin yanked him over.

 _“Boys,”_ Mr. Wayne repeated, and they both shot to attention. Terry straightened in his seat automatically. Mr. Wayne’s command had been in a tone he knew only too well: the dreaded Dad Voice.

They were dressed identically---red and green uniforms with yellow capes, green boots, and red domino masks. There were mass-manufactured Halloween costumes based on their uniforms, but there was no question that they were the real deal. They were the Robins.

Holy shit, _they were the Robins._

“Father said that we should thank you,” one of the Robins began.

“Well, Mom told Father to tell us to tell you thank you,” the other Robin finished.

“So, on behalf of ourselves, our father, and our omnipotent mother: thank you.”

“You’ve saved our lives, but also doomed us to an eternity of I-told-you-sos,” he said, and they both bowed with a flourish.

“The dramatics were not necessary,” Mr. Wayne said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“But the delivery was good,” the Robin-on-the-Left said, crossing his arms as well.

“We killed that entrance. Pound it,” Robin-on-the-Right assured him, and they bumped fists.

Mr. Wayne just shook his head. “You didn’t introduce yourselves.”

“Ari,” said Robin-on-the-Right, just as Robin-on-the-Left said, “Leo.”

“You and I are the only ones who can tell them apart when they’re in uniform, Father,” Laila chastised, leaning in the doorway. “Terry has enough to absorb right now. Names will come later.”

The evening thus far had been an action-packed hour of stunning realizations. His girlfriend’s mom was a part-time teacher. His girlfriend’s brothers were the Robins.

And his girlfriend was Nightwing. Terry couldn’t help but gape stupidly at her. Her uniform was form-fitting and sleek, reinforced black material slashed with a red _v_ that spread across her breasts, the ends trailing down her arms to her fingertips.

“Holy crap,” Terry said, the gape turning into a silly grin. Laila smiled back, a faint dimpling of the corners of her mouth.

His girlfriend was a superhero. Being a billionaire heiress just wasn’t enough for Laila, was it? Her whole family had to be in on it---that was the real reason behind the secrecy. It all made sense, now.

“Holy crap,” Terry said, a second realization hitting him too quickly to keep in. He looked at Mr. Wayne, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the big reveal. “You’re _Batman.”_

“Oh, man, did you bring a camera?” One of the Robins asked his brother.

“No!” The other said, groaning. “I thought you were bringing the camera!”

“Oh, man, he’s totally gonna hurl. Doesn’t he look like he’s gonna hurl?”

“Totally gonna blow chunks. And we don’t have a camera!”

“We would’ve had a camera if _you’d_ remembered to bring it!”

“Boys,” Laila said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Terry isn’t going to vomit, though he has a lot to assimilate, I’m sure. If you don’t want to _continue_ our training exercise, you’ll go and get dressed for company.”

“Wash up first,” Mr. Wayne said, still petting the cat.

“We smell?” Ari asked Leo, who raised his arm for a sniff test.

“We smell,” he confirmed, then dodged his sister’s escrima stick.

 _“Out_ , both of you.”

Leo gave Terry a thumb’s up and Ari mouthed _good luck, bro_ as they marched resolutely to get out of uniform and ready for the family dinner.

“Sorry,” Laila said, tucking a hank of her short hair behind her ear. “Close combat practice gets them wired. They’re itching to patrol, but they’re grounded.”

“As fortunate as your intercession on their behalf was, they still must learn not to stray from their teammates while in the field,” their father said with a sigh. “They’re determined to gray me prematurely.”

Laila sat down next to Terry, sparing him a wider smile and taking his hand. The tread of her gloves rasped against his skin, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

“I hope that you’re okay with this,” she said. “This is...this is my life. All of it. I know that it is a lot to process.”

Terry laughed, just a touch hysterical. _That_ was the understatement of the night.

“Yeah, it’s---” he almost said _schway_ , but managed to stop himself just in time. “It’s...wow, you know? I’m just...I’ve got one question. Why are you trusting me with this?”

“I’ll answer that, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Wayne said, clearing his throat. “Because the decision was mine, not hers. I’m not surprised that you don’t remember, but this isn’t the first time we’ve met. When you were just an infant, you were kidnapped by Three-Face, and---”

“Batman saved me,” Terry interrupted, without even meaning to. “And that---that was you.”

“Yes,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve saved thousands over the years, and not every face or name sticks with me, despite my exceptional memory. Had you not resurfaced in my life several times, I doubt I would have kept tabs on you. But several years ago, my ‘little friend’ witnessed your brush with criminal activity, and was adamant that you were innocent. Her involvement in your case deliberately disobeyed my standing orders. I wasn’t surprised when she requested to enroll in your school after all was said and done.”

 _“Father,”_ Laila whisper-hissed, her cheeks flushed from embarrassment.

Terry was back to goggling at her. _She_ had been the Robin that had saved his butt? She’d transferred _because_ of him? He’d been so positive that he’d been the one doing the active wooing, but it was looking like their first date had been carefully orchestrated by Laila long before he’d met her without a mask on.

“She takes after her mother,” Mr. Wayne continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “And gives her love to men who have done very little to deserve it. You should be grateful that she also inherited her stubbornness when it comes to protecting her loved ones from their own poor decisions.”

Laila hid her face in her hands. “You promised you wouldn’t do this.”

“I made no such promise. As I was saying, I monitored you---and your relationship with her---from that point on. Your intervention on the Robins’ behalf cemented my belief that you are a good young man, Terry. Your courage and tenacity are commendable. Not just anyone would have stepped into that fight.”

Terry shrugged, almost as embarrassed as Laila was. He got the feeling that Mr. Wayne didn’t hand out compliments very often.

“I didn’t think,” he said. “It just kind of happened.”

“Precisely,” Mr. Wayne said. “To act was your impulse. It is your core nature, and that is a rare thing. _That_ is why I decided to share this knowledge with you. I believe that you wouldn’t willingly give up this privileged information---and I believe that you accept the full scope of what would happen if you _did.”_

He should’ve known that he wouldn’t escape this talk without at least _one_ threat.

“If you want me to pinkie swear, I’ll pinkie swear.”

“No need,” the Batman said, pushing his chair back from his desk. The cat leapt up on his shoulder. “All I ask is that you support Laila. Having a confidant in one’s life is important, and you are the one she chose. I expect that you, as her partner, will protect her to the best of your abilities.”

Terry squeezed her hand. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Mr. Wayne’s tone was brisk and businesslike, slightly skewed by the fact that he had a cat perched on his shoulder like a pirate’s parrot. “Dinner will be ready shortly, if my partner hasn’t set fire to anything. I’m glad that we had this talk.”

“Yeah, uh,” Terry said, not sure what to say. His brain was completely overloaded. “Same.”

“He thought that the sixth Robin was a boy, you know,” Mr. Wayne told his daughter as he left.

Laila rounded on Terry, her hands planted indignantly on her hips.

“You did _not.”_

“Would it help if I said I thought you were a cute boy?” Terry asked lamely, giving her his most winning smile. She frowned, then hit his upper-arm.

“Don’t let my uncles hear you say that,” she warned him. “They’re wary enough about you as-is.”

“Who all _is_ the rest of your family?” He asked. It was too bad that Max could never know about Laila’s ‘other’ life---she would’ve given just about anything to have a sit-down dinner with her geek idols, Tim Drake-Kent and Barbara Gordon.

Laila adjusted his tie, smiling absently.

“Let’s see. Commissioner Barbara Gordon and her partner, Dinah. Uncle Dick, or Richard Grayson. Better known as the original Nightwing and original Robin. Uncle Tim, aka Tim Kent. Better known as Red Robin. He’ll be bringing his husband, Conner Drake-Kent, and their son, Caddoc. Most people know them as Superman and Superboy, of course.”

“Wait. _Wait._ Red Robin and Superman are _married?”_

“Shush. I’m not finished,” she said, clearly enjoying this. “Their son is my cousin. My mother dated Uncle Tim for years, back when he was Robin---but before _she_ was Robin. Mama was Spoiler, then Robin, then Batgirl, then Batwoman. My Aunt Nell took her mantle as Batwoman. And now, she’s retired.”

“And now, she’s my third period teacher.”

“Yes, she is. My Uncle Jay will also be coming---Jason Todd, the second Robin, and recently retired Red Hood.”

Terry didn’t mean to hit the volume and register that he did. It just kind of happened.

“The Red Hood is _your uncle?”_

“Yes,” Laila said placidly. “Both of them are, actually. His replacement is my Uncle Gideon. He is my father’s brother---or his clone, if we’re going to be frank. Uncle Gideon took over for Uncle Jay, and he’s doing quite well, I think.”

“Can I just...start running now?” Terry demanded, aghast. Laila gave him one of her rare smirks, tossing him her escrima sticks.

“You’re welcome to try, but I doubt that you’ll be able to outrun me,” she told him sweetly. “Besides, Aunt Cassandra, Auntie Milagro, Auntie Iris, Uncle Bart, and Uncle Jaime will likely show up. Seeing as they make up a good portion of the League and they all want to meet you, escape is not an option. They've all heard a lot about you.”

Terry tried to say something sensible, but it just came out as a high, tangled-up teakettle noise.

“Heroes tend to travel in packs,” Laila said, dropping a swift kiss on his nose. “It’s an unfortunate trait of the species. I need to get washed up and dressed, but if you go help my mother in the kitchen, I promise she will protect you. Her retirement has not diminished her aim in any way.”

“I’m not really scared off,” Terry said, and kissed her back. “And I was serious about what I said to your dad. You know that, right?”

“I know,” she said, and beamed quietly at him. “I’ve known for some time.”

Terry McGinnis was pretty much convinced that he had the best girlfriend in the world.


	31. Willing to Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birth of Laila Constance Wayne.

For the very first time in Steph's memory, it was a fight to get Damian to wear the Bat cowl. Since he was usually so adamant about keeping to a nightly patrol schedule, having to all but force him to hit the streets was borderline insanity. But nobody was more aware of how close the baby’s birth was looming than Damian, and he took his responsibilities as protector as seriously as he did his responsibilities as Batman. As the time before her due date dwindled down from weeks to days, Steph had trouble sleeping. Her belly was awkwardly big, and the baby was restless; she'd run out of comfortable positions, and the strength of the baby's kicks almost took her breath away. She was way, way ready to not be pregnant anymore.

Damian stayed awake with her most nights, constantly worried that this would be _the night_. She appreciated the company and the back rubs, but her poor partner’s nerves were absolutely shot. Making him go out and fight crime was good for him---it helped him get some of his fear out as aggression, wearing him out enough to earn him a little bit of post-patrol shut-eye. He tried to pretend otherwise, but he was still recovering from his re-soulification. He tired easily, and slept much more than he had in years.

It wasn’t just the impending birth that he was worried about, he claimed. He hated to leave her at home alone. Crest Hill was twenty minutes away from the hospital, and none of their neighbors lived close enough to hear her if she needed help. Damian was ever the paranoid control freak. Steph loved him, but she hated being doted on---especially since she was on bed rest and couldn’t get away.

Yes, she loved him. She loved how badly he wanted to help her. She loved how much he, a boy she had worried didn’t have the capacity for normal human emotions when they'd first met, cared about their child.

She loved him, but she still wanted to strangle him once in a while. She went crazy when he refused to let her do things for herself and treated her like she might go into labor at any time. He had all the right intentions, but Steph couldn’t stand being told what she could and couldn't do---even when she knew, rationally, that he was right. The thing she loved most about Damian was the way he treated her as an equal partner---or even as the more dominant of the two of them. He was only trying to show that he loved her, but she was too sore and heavy and tired to not be cranky about it. She was frustrated enough with her own limitations without him reminding her of them.  

Damian was protective of her normally, but that protectiveness had doubled when he’d found out that she was carrying his baby. He had a long history of _dealing with_ the people and things that hurt her, with or without her knowledge. She hadn't missed the fact that Waylon Jones had never been seen again after the night he'd almost killed her, all those years ago. She'd never brought up what he had or hadn't done to Croc, because she accepted that in certain situations, Damian couldn't stop himself from exacting an eye for an eye.

He'd calmed down with age and her careful pushes toward normality, but he would never be a working definition for tame. Which, she'd found when she was thumbing through baby name books, is what _Damian_ meant. She'd thought it was hilarious until he'd explained that it was tame as an action, not as a description--- _to tame,_ a name given to a child who was supposed to make the world kneel before him. So naturally, situations that were out of his control frustrated him.

Just days from her due date, his urge to protect her was driving them both up the wall. He hovered awkwardly, always looking for signs of labor while trying to pretend that he wasn't. More often than not, she told him to either go get his Bat on or go build something---and that if he didn't give her some space, she'd show him exactly how capable of kicking his ass she was at nine months pregnant.

Her pregnancy had changed him in small but significant ways. Whether he realized it or not, Damian was going through his own hormonal changes. If she hadn't been stuck in the middle of the maelstrom of his nervous energy, she would have found his nesting mode hilarious. Damian was handy to begin with, but he'd funneled all of his anxiety into readying the manor for a child---something that the Wayne estate hadn't seen since Bruce's birth.

He refused to call it nesting, of course, and frowned deeply whenever she made jokes about preparing like true Robins. He refused to believe that he was being driven by paternal instinct and hormones, but he built the baby's crib himself, reinforced and redesigned the manor's perimeter security, and made sure the nursery had the most sophisticated baby monitor system that he was capable of designing. He was denial-nesting like a crazymotherfucker, and Steph let him---even when just _watching_ him move from one project to another was exhausting.

Nesting and crimefighting kept him out of her hair, giving her the room to breathe and rest and prepare for what was coming. She'd decided that this time around, she was going to do this birthing thing right. She was going to have a natural birth---not an emergency c-section---and she was going to carry the baby as long as possible---not deliver her prematurely---and she didn't care how difficult those two things ended up being. She planned to give her daughter the best start she could.

But since this was their life and their luck, none of it went as planned.

Four days before her due date, Steph woke up from a restless, early-evening catnap with the worst back ache of her life. There was back aches, and then there was wrenching, paralyzing back agonies---and she woke up with the latter. The muscles in her low back and around her sides were knotted and tight, and no amount of stretching or rubbing relieved the pressure. She'd reached the point of tiredness where she woke up more exhausted than when she went to sleep, so her frustration bubbled over and her eyes began to itch with tears.

Steph was excited about the baby. She really was. She was happy about finally becoming a mother. She really, really was.

But she was ready to be moving on from this particular stage of motherhood. She wasn't looking _forward_ to the miracle of childbirth, but she was definitely relieved that the end was in sight. She wanted to have the baby, then get back to fighting fit. There was only so much coddling, inactivity, and sleeplessness that she could take, and she'd hit her limit.

Steph tried to keep quiet, but her partner had notoriously sharp ears. She muffled her ragged little breaths with the back of her hand, but it wasn't enough. The bedside lamp flicked on, and Damian sat up. The warm yellow glow bronzed the side of his worried face.

"What's wrong?"

She laughed, but her eyelashes were gathered in tear-soaked darts. Wiping her eyes didn't take away the hot blotchy color from her cheeks.

"My everything hurts. And she has the hiccups again."

"That's all?"

If he had any real clue how much that entailed, he never would have asked her that. The hiccups weren't anywhere as bad as the kicks and rolls their future acrobatic daughter practiced on her insides, but they were inescapable and repetitive. The baby would get the hiccups for twenty or thirty minutes at a time, a faint pulse drumming every three or four seconds. It didn't hurt, but it kept her awake. When she was well-rested, the regular nudges were amusing. When she was too tired to deal with life at large, they were as maddening as a leaky faucet. The hiccups seemed to annoy the baby as much as they did her, so long bouts of them ended in sharp little kicks.

"That's more than enough. _I've_ had enough."

"Your resilience has been impressive," Damian admitted, coaxing her to roll away from him by pushing gently against her hip. Steph was way, way sick of that, too: she missed the days when she hadn't needed help to roll over or get up. It took a huff, some effort, and a sigh, but she rolled onto her other side.

"That's me," Steph muttered. "Meeting or exceeding all babymaking-related expectations."

Damian got to work on her back, massaging lightly from the small of her back to her neck in order to map out her freshest sore spots. He'd gotten excellent at interpreting her various mumbles, fidgets, moans, and shouts---her back was a minefield of stress knots, and she wouldn't have trusted anyone outside of Damian and Cass to work them out. It took an expert mix of strong hands and fluency in body language.

"I understand now why my mother chose to gestate me in an artificial womb," Damian said quietly, digging his knuckles into a particularly nasty band of strained muscle across the small of her back. Steph yelped and arched automatically, hissing between her teeth. He didn't back off, since that was the signal for an _I-can-deal-with-it-keep-going_ pain.

"Since you've seen how quickly pregnancy turns a hot bod all funhouse mirror?" She joked, exhaling as he massaged slow, deep, _kind-of-oww-but-pretty-mmm_ circles with his thumbs.

"Shut up," he said curtly, lightly smacking her back with the flat of his palm. "I was going to compliment you, but if you're totally against compliments tonight, I won't waste my time."

Their talking woke Alfred up. The cat looked highly annoyed about it, peering at them with his eyes narrowed into drowsy yellow slits. With a yawn that bared his needle-sharp teeth, he arched, stretched, and moved up to the pillow beside Steph's head. He sniffed her nose, whiskers twitching, then began grooming her right eyebrow with his rough tongue.

"Ack, no, you don't need to help," she said, nudging him away. "D has this one handled."

Damian snorted. "Always trying to one-up me and win her love. You should know better by now, you insufferable beast."

Alfred curled up in a neat ball of black and white fur and promptly went back to sleep.

"A compliment or two might give you a leg-up on Alfie," Steph informed him, slowly relaxing as her back began radiating more heat than pain. "I mean, we've got another six months until the wedding. I could always marry him instead."

She felt the warm ruffle of his breath as he angled closer to her, putting his weight behind his fingers.

"In the interest of not losing you to the cat, fine. Watching you these past few months, I've realized that pregnancy is a long and difficult affair. And while she doesn't lack the patience and endurance necessary to bear a child, Mother is too selfish to give up months of her life. She prioritized her effectiveness as a warrior and a businesswoman over constant contact with her sons. She made that choice, and it had its repercussions."

"I get her reasoning, though," Steph said, peering back over her shoulder as his circles slowed. "She had shit to get done. She was trying to make sure you got the perfect environment to grow in, because she wanted you to be strong."

"And I was," Damian agreed, sliding his palm over her rounded side. "And I am. But it wasn't the perfect environment. The lack of physical contact retarded my early testing scores. If my mother hadn't been madly in love with my father, I may have been terminated as an unsuccessful homunculus. Pregnancy means sacrifice. For the child to be healthy, the mother has to be willing to give---and if she does not, the child suffers."

"You have a really roundabout way of giving compliments, you know that?" She said, finding his hand and twisting their fingers together.

He grumbled low in his throat.

"Considering how little sleep we've had this week, I feel like you've set your compliment standards too high."

"Nah, it was a beautiful compliment." She inhaled, stretched to the best of her abilities, and exhaled breezily. "I'm sorry that I woke you up with my blubbering."

"It's about time for me to get up, anyway." Damian pressed a dry kiss to the nape of her neck. "Unless you'd rather I stayed in with you tonight."

"Nuh-uh. You're just looking for an excuse not to patrol, mister," she chided. "I'm onto you and your scheming ways."

"It isn't a scheme. I've been giving it a lot of thought, and---"

"No, D."

"---I feel that, as close as we are to the baby's due date---"

"I said no."

"---it would be in our best interest---"

"The Carson bust has to happen tonight."

"---for me to _not_ patrol---"

"That's not an option."

"---until after the birth," Damian finished, loudly.

"Don't start this with me again," Steph said, scrubbing her hands through her hair. "You know that you have to intercept that firearms shipment. You _know_ that I'll be fine by myself for a couple of hours. And you _have to know_ that it's important that you get as much Bat-visibility in before she's born. Afterward, you'll be even less enthusiastic about leaving baby and me alone. If you want to fight, we'll fight about it. But you're the one who's always nagging me about raising my blood pressure."

"You're right. I know that you are, but." Damian rolled onto his stomach, growling his frustration into the pillow. "I don't want to go."

Steph patted the back of his neck. "Sorry, sweetie. Adulthood means putting on your Batsuit even when you _don't_ feel like punching people in the face."

He lifted his cheek out of the pillow far enough to peer at her with one very concerned blue eye.

"I'll stay on the comm-link with you," she offered, because he looked _that_ miserably worried. "Maybe with a little bit of computer support helping you, you can call it an early night."

"You're on bed rest, Stephanie."

The 'b' word had turned into her least favorite one in the English language. She was rapidly approaching the level of irritation where someone saying _bed rest_ made her want to throw something. A tantrum. A table. Whatever was handy.

"I can _sit in a chair_ for a few hours. It's not going to hurt me, I swear."

He didn't look like he quite believed her, but that he'd accepted that he wasn't going to win the argument.

"I'm sure it'll be a slow night," Steph said, which was probably the exact thing that jinxed it.

 

*

 

Gotham had had a white Christmas, which had softened into a gray new year, which had in turn frozen up enough to create a slick, terrible base for what was shaping up to be a late January blizzard. The electricity was out in certain parts of the city, so the Batman had a full dance card for the night between rescue, relief, and crime prevention. The wind gusts were bitterly brutal, and after nightfall the temperature dipped to 6°F.

"-14.4°C," Batman corrected her automatically, after she'd given him a weather update.

Steph rolled her eyes, sinking into the heating pad-lined blanket nest she'd built in the computer chair. It'd been Bruce's chair, so it was ideal for a man of his build---or for a small pregnant woman in need of some serious back support.

"Sweetie, you need to give it up already. You've lived in America for more than half your life. Sooner or later, you have to accept that we don't use the metric system."

"Metric makes sense," he said, with all of the stubborn irritation of a man who knew he was picking a useless fight.

"US customary units for life," she said, sipping at her bottled water. "Down with the decimal!"

He just snorted, not even dignifying that with a real response.

She wasn't working with her A material tonight, as far as quips went. She'd claimed that she'd be fine, but the back rub that Damian had given her hadn't lasted very long. The ache had crept back under her skin, squeezing hard; she was so tense, her belly barely had any give at all. It was bad for her and bad for the baby, so she tried to relax, but it just wasn't working.

And she knew why that was. She'd figured it out, when she'd started paying attention to the rhythm of her back pain.

She'd started labor. Probably late that afternoon, technically. With typical Wayne stubbornness and disregard for the schedules of others, the baby was coming---and she was coming _now._

"I'm at the Ellsworth Building, and there is zero visibility. This weather is unspeakably foul," Batman said, annoyed.

He had no idea that she was in labor. She hadn't gotten around to telling him quite yet. Labor took hours, and she knew how Damian was---if he knew, he would come back immediately and hover until she started pushing. He would stress himself _and_ her half to death. Damian was the man that you called to deal with everything and anything but normal problems. Ninja assassin attack? Nobody was better at dealing with ninja. Hostile corporate takeovers? Not on his watch. Space zombies? He could save the world, and had twice before.

But when faced with the normal stresses of adult life, he got rattled. She wanted to save him from as much of that as possible, so she'd quietly dealt with her growing discomfort. Gotham was cold and in need of her Batman, so she'd decided against interfering with his effectiveness.

The problem was, Damian knew how to read her voice a little too well. It was difficult to pretend that she was fine, because there was a clear line between genuine and forced cheer.

“D,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut and really struggling to keep her voice even. “Listen. My back is killing me. I have to get off the line, but don’t worry, okay? Wrap up the bat business, then head on home.”

She could hear him mulling that one over, muffled by the whistling wind and snow.

“Finish the job,” Steph said, sure that he was trying to scrounge up an excuse to beg off and come see her.

 _“Tt._ I told you to keep to your bed rest, as per the doctor’s orders.”

“Not in the mood for I-told-you-so’s, sweetie,” she huffed, digging her knuckles into the small of her aching back.

“But I _did_ tell you to stay in bed.”

“The record will read that you, Damian Wayne, told me, Stephanie Brown, to stay in bed with the cat. Now go finish your justicing already, asshole.”

Damian’s voice was gruff and warm. “Go rest, _ya rohi.”_

 _Ya rohi_. The endearment made Steph's heart forget its usual rhythm. Damian rarely used any kind of pet name. He thought they were pedantic and trite, and he turned his nose up at Jason’s habit of tacking on cutesy nicknames at random. Damian preferred to use her full name---Stephanie, rarely Steph---or to address her as his partner. He only called her his fianceé when he was introducing her as the soon-to-be wife of Damian Wayne. He was eternally picky about language.

So, _ya rohi_ was something he called her only once in a great while. It was Arabic---a language he avoided using---and it was definitely the kind of thing you'd say to a sweetheart. It meant 'my soul', and given all that they had gone through, she was inclined to believe he didn't mean it metaphorically.

On top of that, he was saying it while wearing the cowl. Batman didn't speak any language other than English unless it was to address an assailant, and he sure as hell didn’t use endearments. It really _meant_ something when he broke character while wearing his father’s persona.

“Planning on it,” she said, holding onto the edge of the desk and pushing herself up out of her blanket nest. “Keep safe, and give crime a punch in the junk from me.”

“From Batwoman, with love.” Batman paused, taking a breath. She could basically _hear_ him argue with himself over whether or not to return to the cave. More and more, he struggled with defining what his main responsibilities were. “I’ll be back soon.”

Her initial response---a brazenly flirtatious quip, the easiest way to fool him into believing all was well back at the ranch---froze in her throat. An embarrassing warm trickle spread down her legs, and for a moment she thought that she’d lost control of her bladder. The smell was different, though, and she was suddenly very glad that she’d stood up.

She was pretty sure that the ghost of Bruce Wayne would have lodged a formal complaint if she’d been sitting in his old chair when her water broke. He’d really liked that chair. Having sex in the chair was okay, and bleeding from war-wounds was okay, but somehow, baby-mess just didn’t seem acceptable.

“Okay, love you, bye,” Steph said quickly, hanging up. Her hands shook.

She was a tiny bit terrified that _soon_ wasn’t going to be soon enough.

 

*

 

It'd been a rough year in the life of Jason Todd. He'd turned thirty-three, which felt like an oddly auspicious number. He'd had more than his fair share of unexpected mid-life epiphanic moments, and many of those had been connected with the little Batfamily That Could.

He'd long since accepted that if the flow of his life was a river, _Waynes_ were the rocks that either created dams or rapids in the stream, depending on their size and placement. Once upon a time and half a second chance ago, he'd been obsessed with identifying those obstacles and removing them. He'd never been successful, but he hadn't been giving it his all, either. Back then, he hadn't known what he would do if he didn't have those rocks in his way.

But then, Bruce had died. It'd been seven years since he'd stood by the old man's grave, but the loss was still _there_. When that obstacle had suddenly disappeared, he'd drifted free. Turned out, that kind of freedom wasn't what he'd wanted after all. Jason had left Gotham for almost two years---time enough for wounds to scab over, time enough to decide who Jason Todd was all over again, time enough to kill the urge to visit Bruce's grave again and again just to make sure he was still there, still dead, and not clawing at the lid of his coffin.

The nightmares never really went away. Nobody got to know that particular tidbit about Gotham's second-biggest boss---second only to Loveless, and he let her have the title out of gentlemanly chivalry. At least once or twice a month, he woke up drenched in cold sweat, hoarsely screaming long vowels and shaking. Phantom pain lanced up his knuckles and up under his nails, throbbing long after he woke up.

Turned out, he had early onset arthritis in his hands. Go figure. Nightmares and memories and reality got all fucked up and heat-compressed in his head, blending together until he couldn't tell where one started and the other ended.

So once in a while, it was nice to wake up to the opening bars of _Walking on Sunshine_ , not the gunmetal grays of burst nightmares.

Jason rolled over, groping blindly underneath his pillow until his fingers closed around the cool plastic edge of the cellphone. It was vibrating his cheek through the pillow, trilling a high _"Whooooah, and don't it feel good!"_

In the last couple of weeks, he'd gotten into the habit of sleeping with his phone under his pillow. Usually, he reserved days off for sleep time and sleep time for sleeping, so he shut the damn thing off before he got into bed. But since he was one of the few people who lived within five minutes of Crest Hill, he figured it wouldn't hurt to keep an ear open for the denizens of the manor on the hill. Timmy and his pet Kryptonian were on call, but they weren't always available---not when their League adventures took them outside of their corner of the multiverse, sometimes.

So it didn't surprise him at all when he glanced at the clock and saw that it was just before three. Something was up, and Batwoman had elected to call him about it.

Jason yawned through his _hello_. "Heeeeeey. Can't sleep?"

Her voice was breathy on the other end of the line, high.

“Hi,” she said. “I need a favor. A huge favor.”

Jason sat up, scrubbing his hand over his eyes. No rest for the wicked, indeed.

“You didn’t fuck off to England again, did you?”

“I---no, God, I---I need help. Like, right now.”

He stowed the rest of the joke, all his amusement dropping just like that. If she was saying that she needed help, that meant she _needed help._ They didn’t play around with crying wolf.  

“Hey, slow down,” he said sternly, crooking the phone up against his shoulder to free up his hands. He started lacing up his boots, mentally compiling what he might need to bring with him. Knives, probably. Guns. Guns were always on the list. But what was she calling him for, when she had bratbat to see to her needs? “What’s going on?”

“Well,” and her voice peaked even higher, wobbling. “I’m kind of having the baby. Like, right now. Technically? Been in labor for most of the day, but the contractions weren’t bad until about an hour ago, and my water broke, and this thing is happening. I need to get to the hospital soon.”  

Okay, seriously, these kids were officially stupid as shit.

“Where the _fuck_ is Damian?”

“In the middle of something,” Steph said quickly, her words tripping over each other between her choppy breaths. “Interrupting him right now could get him hurt, and I can’t risk that. He’s still---he’s still adjusting to not being godhax anymore, and I---I’m okay, and I thought I had more time, but I just---I need help.”

He couldn’t help his small, private smirk. “I’m second on the phone tree? Baby, I’m _touched._ ”

“Jay," she said, and the plea in her voice made him forgo lacing his boots up altogether. "Just get here. Please.”

 

*

 

“Maaan,” Jason said, sizing her up critically as she rounded the corner. “You _sure_ you’re not having twins?”

“Ha ha,” Steph ground out irritably. She was pacing around the kitchen, a balancing hand on the counter and the cat following at her heels. Walking helped, but the contractions were getting closer and closer together. It wasn't supposed to be happening this quickly. She _needed_ to wait for Damian to come home. “Don’t even joke.”

“I mean," he said, gesturing widely at her stomach. "You’ve gotten so big since the last time I saw you, I’m surprised you---”

“Jason. Peter. Todd. I will kick your ass right here and now if you keep bringing that up. My level of beached whale is not up for discussion. Are we clear?”

He grinned. “God, I love it when you’re feisty.”

“If you don’t shut up, I'm going to punch you in the throat.”

“And if you keep up with those sweet nothings, I just might kidnap you for my own, cutie patootie.”

"You--- _augh---FUCK."_ She seized up, almost overbalancing from the sudden intensity of the contraction that wrapped around her middle. Alfred hopped up on the counter, tail puffed out and the hair along his spine standing up in fear. "Fucking fuck fuck _fuck!"_

Steph grabbed the edge of the counter with a white-knuckled grip, her entire body tense and trembling. The grinding, inescapable pressure of the contraction crested, much sooner than she had been ready for. She clenched her teeth, biting down on a scream. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until Jason started rubbing her back, murmuring.

“C’mon, cupcake. Breathe. In and out, nice and slow. Don’t tighten up. Use as many fucks as you need," he said, easing her through it.

"Fuck," Steph whined, breath hitching.

"I know, I know," he said soothingly. "Just keep breathing. Didn’t you take the birthing classes?”

“Sure did. When I was fifteen. With Tim. In disguise." She gave a hiccuppy, high little laugh. "Maybe I should’ve made the time for a refresher. _Fuck.”_

“You think?” Jason asked dryly. He kept rubbing the bands of tension across the small of her back until the contraction ebbed and her muscles stopped spasming. His hands were bigger than hers, stronger---he could dig in deep into the knots and relieve some of the pressure. He wasn't as good at it as Damian, but that was one of the reasons why she was marrying that emotionally stunted bastard. “Sometimes, I think I’m the only one with any common sense in this town.”

She exhaled raggedly. “You sound like you've done this before.”

“Deliver a baby? Yeah. Two,” he said, shrugging.

Steph looked back at him, eyebrows arched. “Really?”

“I’ve done a lot of things. Surprisingly, the kind of high-stress situations I get myself into aren't good for pregnant ladies. Scared, pregnant ladies turn into scared, laboring ladies at the flip of a switch. And hell, it's not like I could just leave 'em alone after that.”

Jason was the first to admit that he was a bad influence, a bad man, and a dangerous person to be around. He had no hang-ups with admitting that, no illusions. But at the same time, he was one of the most dependable people in Steph's life. When she called, he came. He didn't expect any compensation---didn't even imply that she owed him one for helping her out. He was the kind of man who would accidentally trigger a woman's labor by busting her drug-dealing boyfriend, then stay with her and make sure she made it safely through the birth. He was capable of great gentleness and extreme violence, and if you thought you had him pegged either way, you were probably wrong.

“Keep up with this massage and I might run away with you yet, Mr. Todd,” Steph mumbled, leaning into his hands.

“Promises, promises,” he said, clucking his tongue reproachfully.

Alfred didn't seem to know what to do with himself. He'd been following Steph more closely than usual, sensing that something was going on, but there was only so much that a cat-shaped familiar could do to protect his laboring mistress. He tensed up when she did, hair standing on end, and groomed his coat frantically between contractions.

But those contractions were coming closer and closer together. Steph was about to thank Jason, to awkwardly attempt to bridge the gap between himself and the rest of the Bats that the Red Hood had carved out, but another wave of pain crawled up her spine.

"Fuck," Steph growled, grinding her teeth. Jason paused in his massage, frowning.

"Again?" He asked, glancing at his watch. "Already? That was four minutes between 'em."

"Tell me something I don't know," she hissed as Alfred puffed up again.

"Waiting around for Batboy isn't in the cards anymore," Jason said firmly, putting his coat back on. "That baby's not waiting for Daddy to get off work, so neither can we."

"But I---I told him---"

"Hi, this is your rationality speaking," Jason said, which should have been the work-up to a joke. "You have to worry about _you_ right now---you need to take care of yourself and the critter you're popping out, not about Damian. He can take care of himself. You two decided on a hospital, right?"

"Mercy," she said, nodding jerkily. "Mercy West. My---my mom worked there, and---"

"Good enough for me," he said, putting an arm around her and helping walk her toward the cave. "Where's your coat?"

"Hall closet. Should I call a taxi?"

"Don't bother. I'll drive you."

Steph stopped, planting both feet firmly.

"I'm not going to ride to the hospital on a motorcycle!"

"I didn't say anything about taking my bike," he said, with a long-suffering sigh. He moved as he talked, manhandling her into her coat and buttoning as many of the buttons that still fastened around her middle. "Use your head, cupcake. You've got a garage full of tricked-out cars, so we're going to borrow one."

Oh. Well. That was true.

"Damian's not going to like that."

"Damian doesn't like a lot of things. My goal is to get you and your spawn to the hospital as quickly and safely as possible---which he _will_ like. You know there isn't any safer vehicle around."

Their birth plan had completely jumped tracks. Instead of the process that they'd planned, her labor was progressing quickly and messily, it was snowing heavily, and her best option was to let the Red Hood hotwire the old Batmobile and drive her to the doctor. God willing, she wouldn't end up having the baby _in_ the Batmobile. Damian was going to have a meltdown over it---she just knew that he would.

"C'mon, chum," Jason said, grinning as he helped her down the stairs. "To the Batmobile!"

As the grandfather clock slid closed behind them, Alfred mewled frantically.

 

*

 

"And it's like, I should have seen this coming," Steph huffed angrily, gesturing with both hands. "I should've known it would be like this. Waynes are crazy. You know that. I know that. They're cuckoo bananapuffs."

"Cuckoo bananapuffs?" The corner of Jason's mouth twitched up into a smirk. "I've gotta remember that one. I like it."

"Rich as they come, and crazy as they come. Waynes in a nutshell. And I mean, I know that," she continued, anxiously rubbing the sides of her belly. The baby hadn't moved much since she'd woken up, and the lack of regular kicks and nudges was disconcerting. She knew that wasn't unusual, but she couldn't help but worry. The labor felt exactly like it had the first time around, and that was not good. The first time around, the doctors had been surprised that both she and the baby had made it through. Her first daughter had been almost two months premature, and they'd had to put Steph under for emergency surgery. She'd been having nightmares about it for weeks, and now they were coming true. "I knew Bruce was crazy. I knew Damian was crazy. I'm marrying crazy. I have a uterus stuffed full of crazy right now. So I should've known that this was going to be crazy."

"This isn't crazy," Jason said, flicking the windshield wipers to increase their swishing. The snow hadn't let up, and Damian's assessment of the weather had been right---there was just about zero visibility in Gotham. The white-out conditions had turned traffic into a slow, icy crawl.

"Really," Steph challenged, twisting uncomfortably in her laid-back seat. "You driving the Batmobile, me trying not to deliver a baby in the back seat of a crimefighter's crotch rocket during the worst blizzard our fair city has seen in over a hundred years, while my clueless billionaire fiance is dressed up in a bat costume and throwing bat-shaped projectiles at gun runners--- _this ISN'T crazy?"_

"Nope," he informed her cheerfully, and switched gears with a deceptively soft mechanical purr. "Not until I start driving like a crazy. Cross your legs and hold onto something, princess."

She scrunched her eyes shut. Just _feeling_ the car weave and speed through lanes made her nauseous enough.

"Maybe we should've taken one of the flying Batmobiles."

"Are you kidding? First off, that's fucking passé. Flying cars are tacky as hell---that's Dickie's schtick, not mine. Secondly, this weather would have us grounded. I know that it's hard to imagine, but we're safer with our wheels on the ground right now."

Steph curled around her stomach with a faint whimper. She hadn't felt a proper contraction in over five minutes, but the pressure against her pelvis was awful. Jason kept one hand on the wheel, the other on her.

"Something's wrong," she said, biting hard on her lower lip. "God, Jay, it's---

"Keep breathing," he instructed, and the speedometer leapt.

 

*

He should have seen it coming, really. Damian was a creature of grooming and professionalism, so he was endlessly pragmatic. He didn't put much faith in 'gut feelings' as legitimate extrasensory powers. He believed in reactionary instincts, but he didn't believe in premonitions. His mother did, and had lauded his sensitivity when he'd been a child, but Damian liked to think of himself as more of a realist.

Even still, he should have listened to the still, small voice in his head that had told him to stay with Stephanie. It dogged at him all night, a weight balanced squarely in the back of his mind: impatient and irritated with the city and the weather, all he wanted to do was go home and try to get Stephanie to sleep. Emotionally, he had always been the one who needed her more than she needed him. He knew that, because she was far more capable of being an independent, stable person than he was. Recently, that balance had shifted. Overtired and buzzing with maternal fear and hormones, she'd become needier. More and more, she looked to him for encouragement and proof of his feelings, and he tried his damnedest to provide that support.

But he wasn't good at being demonstrative. All touches were complicated. Language was largely useless when it came to expressing himself. Damian tried, but it didn't feel like it was enough. He was completely uneducated in the rules and expectations of this kind of partnership.

Damian felt almost deaf after she begged off the comm-link in order to go lay down. Without her voice in his ear, his world was silent. The snowfall had padded the earth, a quiet blanket that continued to accumulate. The drifts on the unshoveled sidewalks already hit above his knees, and it was still coming down in fat, thick flakes. The snow deadened the sounds of the city, penning its fortunate denizens in their homes. The unfortunate ones were tucked under the frozen blanket and put to sleep. That was merely a fact of storms of this magnitude---there would be fatalities, come morning.

Once upon a time, Damian had preferred the quiet. He heard better, thought more clearly, when the world around him was silent. He'd detested Stephanie's chattiness when he'd been a boy, because she robbed him of silence. If she wasn't talking at him, to him, around him, or to herself, she was engaging him in inane arguments. With her, patrols were never quiet. The same thing had bothered him about Dick, initially. As time passed, though, he came to associate their endless talking with the aspects of their personalities that he liked: their laughter, their cheerfulness, their excitement, their presence. They became synonymous with noise, and noise became good.

He hadn't consciously realized his redefinition. Not until Stephanie had left, and silence had come to mean _loneliness_ , too.

Silence was empty. He still respected it, but he didn't search it out anymore. It didn't sharpen him the way it used to.

The wind kicked up again with a high, haunting howl. It whistled through the alleyways, combing around cold brick buildings.

The weather conditions discouraged crime. He could return to the cave with clear conscious, couldn't he? He'd been waiting for almost an hour, but the targets making the gun deal hadn't shown up. He toyed with the idea that they'd rescheduled, and had nearly convinced himself of it when the first man showed up.

He was big, jowly. His nose had been broken and set improperly at least twice. Boring, bulky muscle. Damian flexed his fingers to get his circulation moving again.

The other man drove up about fifteen minutes after that. The big man had patiently smoked two cigarettes to their filters, his fingers and ears scrubbed red from the cold. The buyer left the car door open, casting runny yellow light on the snow. Batman dropped down from the roof silently, but he wasn't quick enough to get to the target first.

Something huge and snow-crusted burst from the alleyway with a hissing shriek. The men didn't have time to brace themselves before the monster was on them. Leaping, the creature pinned the first man. Surprisingly, it didn't go for his throat---it just knocked him over, then coiled sinuously and launched itself at the other man.

Damian had only seen this face of his household demon once before, but it was instantly recognizable.

"Down!" Batman commanded, and Alfred obediently released the criminal. He crouched in the snow, teeth bared.

Both targets were shaking; the skinny man kept whimpering "What the fuck. What the _fuck"_ over and over. At six and a half feet tall and nightmarish, Alfred was more than the common crook could handle.

"Listen to me," Batman snarled. "You're going to drive yourselves to the police station. You're going to turn yourselves in. You're going to tell the commissioner that I send my regards. And you're going to do this, because if you do not, my companion here will find you."

The monster hunkered down at Batman's side, growling ominously. The men tripped over themselves trying to get back to the still-running truck as quickly as possible. He had a feeling that they would be making a beeline to the GCPD.

Alfred loomed, a hulking mess of grizzled fur and luminous yellow eyes. Damian’s heart slammed against his ribcage.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded once they were gone, corralling his tone into a firm command. Alfred bent and headbutted his chest, yowling.

The cat wasn’t in one of his mad rampages. He was clean, unbloodied, and anxious. Alfred was acting like he did when he was housecat-sized and desperate to go out or be fed---he wanted to communicate something, but Damian could only vaguely guess what it was that he was trying to get across.

“What the hell are you doing, you daft harlot? You cannot join me on patrol. This is absolutely unacceptable. Stephanie---”

Alfred’s pupils widened into deep pools, his ears flicking up. He keened a high, warbling meow-howl.

“Stephanie?” Damian repeated, and when the familiar howled again, a cold fist of terror squeezed his throat.

Something had happened. Something had happened to Stephanie, and Alfred hadn’t been able to help her. Since he’d been charged with the protection of his partner and their unborn child, Alfred had done the only thing he knew to do---track him down, finish his mission, and tell him.

Damian tried to hail the Batcave computer, but there was no response. He called her cellphone, but got the voicemail. Stephanie would _not_ have strayed far from a communication device of her own volition---not so close to her due date, and not in this weather.

He’d heard a strain of something in her voice before she’d signed off, but he’d written it off as his worry-fueled imagination---she was a proud woman, and she didn’t like to let on when she was hurting. This was something that he respected, but which frustrated him endlessly. She was very pregnant, and she _did_ need his help from time to time. He regularly fought her on the issue, but hadn’t thought it appropriate earlier---she’d sounded too worn-out and irritable, and he hadn’t wanted to stress her further.

But now, something was wrong. He should have dropped the leads and returned to the manor. He should have listened to his gut instinct.

Panic clawed at his chest. Alfred would not have abandoned Stephanie---not even to fetch him---so he had to surmise that she'd left the the manor without the cat. And _that_ meant that she was either traveling to the hospital alone in the middle of a blizzard, or that she'd called someone---someone other than him---to come get her.

He wasn't positive which option bothered him more. Either way, this was not going anywhere near to the plan they'd outlined for the birth. Damian buried his gloved hands in the thick ruff of fur around his neck.

"Calm down, Alfred," he said quietly, stroking his back. "It's okay. You did the right thing, finding me. Good boy. You may come with me, but not like this."

He started up a throaty purr, rumbling against Damian's palms. Undoubtedly, the cat had just added a new chapter into the mythology of the Batman. His father had had many allies, but he hadn't had a demon at his disposal. It wouldn't take long for this urban legend to spread. He'd worried that the rumors that the Batman couldn't die would disappear now that he could no longer cheat death, but Alfred's performance would give his immortality new longevity.

Alfred shrank, folding in on himself until he was housecat-sized again. Damian gently picked him up, petting him, and let him climb up to perch on his shoulder.

"To the Batmobile," he said, as the cat rubbed his long body affectionately against the side of his cowl. He rumbled his agreement.

 

*

 

Her nightmares went exactly like this. For her entire pregnancy, both her dreams and her nightmares had been exceptionally vivid. The good dreams were great, but the bad ones were horrific. In her nightmares, Damian was always missing---she spent half of the dream asking for him, looking for him, wondering why he'd choose now to finally give up on her. Sometimes, something was wrong with her. Sometimes, something was wrong with the baby. One especially bad night, she'd dreamt that she'd gone into surgery---something wrong with her, something wrong with the baby, Damian was gone---and Roman Sionis was scrubbed up and ready to start cutting again. She'd seen the drill, the needles, the pliers, and the knives on the table, and she'd woken up screaming.

Steph knew that this was reality---knew that Jason really was with her, knew that she really was in labor, knew that Damian really was gone, and knew that something really _was_ wrong with the baby---and that was why she was terrified.

The labor had stopped progressing. Medical personnel flitted around her, lobbing cryptic medical lingo between them. They'd tried to get the contractions going again, but her body wasn't responding.

“They don’t like the baby’s positioning,” Jason said, looking back at the nurses, not her. “She’s too big for your ladyparts when she’s coming in at that angle, so they might have to do a c-section. You'll have to sign off on it, but they said---”

True hysteria hit.

“Listen to me!” Steph said, grabbing his hand and squeezing hard enough to grind bones together. _”Please._ Whatever happens, _don’t_ let them put me under. Promise me that you won’t let them!”

Jason looked completely baffled. “What?”

“Not again,” she said, her eyelashes clotting with tears. She’d been able to hold it all together until then, but that old, deep fear had been her breaking point. This was like the last time--- _too_ much like the last time. Something was wrong, she was going into surgery, and her Boy Wonder was nowhere to be found. “My first baby---when I had my first baby---they put me under for the operation. When I woke up, it was over and my baby was gone. I never got to see my baby, and I---I can’t---”

“Hey, hey,” he said quietly, his big hand rubbing down her back. “I promise. Quit freaking out.”

Steph nodded, forcing herself to keep breathing evenly.

"If the doctor says c-section, we'll have a c-section. Not going to stress the baby out trying if natural birth's dicey. But if it---if I don't---"

"You will tell me where she is, and you will tell me _immediately!"_

Her heart leapt up in her throat, her carefully measured breaths breaking up into gasps again. There was _no_ mistaking that voice and its faintly accented ring of imperious command, not even when it was faint and far away.

"He's here," she said, squeezing Jason's hand. "He came. Oh, god. Hurry and get him before he starts interrogating people. He's been more hormonal than me, Jay. You don't even know."

"One of these days, we have to put that boy through obedience school," he said wryly, squeezing her hand back before letting go. "Or we instigate a leash law."

"A Bat-leash," she agreed, then shooed him with both hands. "Go, go, go. Before he makes a scene."

 _"Do you know who I AM?"_

"Might be a little late for that," Jason sighed, and broke into a jog.

 

*

 

It wasn't hard to find him. All Jason had to do was follow the arrogant roaring to pinpoint The Batman. Some things never changed.

“My _fianceé_ is in labor! Do you have any idea who I _am?_ Look---look at that wall, at that plaque right there. Can you _read it?_ Do you know whose name that is? MINE. That is MY name, and my fianceé is delivering my daughter, and if you continue to faff about like this I will be forced to find her myself!”

 _Someone_ wasn't handling the stress well. Damian was standing at the front desk, clearly terrorizing a receptionist. He had a coat and jeans thrown on over what he recognized as the Batman uniform's undersuit. Drawn up to his full height and shaking with barely-contained anger, he was doing a piss-poor job of pretending to be a playboy billionaire. He was one hundred percent Batman. Using the tone and volume that put fear into the hearts of criminal psychopaths was overkill when directed at a flustered receptionist.

"My name is Damian Wayne, and I---"    

“Sorry about him,” Jason said, clapping a hand on Damian’s shoulder and squeezing hard. "It's a medical condition---phallus-in-anus-itis. He can't help it. Tragic, really."

Damian didn’t simmer down. He snarled at him, grabbing him back. The littlest Batman---kind of a joke, now that he thought about it; Damian was taller than both Dick and Bruce had been---fisted both hands in the lapels of his coat, teeth bared.

 _“WHERE IS SHE?”_  

He was scared shitless, Jason realized. Completely out of his mind terrified. He knew that grinning would just piss Damian off more, but he couldn’t help it. He was usually such an ice queen, seeing him so passionately emotional over his lady love was endearing. Jason didn’t like most people, and frankly, couples being couple-y gave him the hives. But Stephanie and her Bat-boy were something different. He liked to believe in romance, and Steph and Damian were a little bit more believable a romance than any story penned during the Victorian era.

“She’s fine,” Jason said, patting the hands he had fisted in his jacket. I mean, she’s cussing the paint off the walls, but if I were in her stirrups, I’d probably do the same.”

“She didn’t tell me,” Damian said, teeth grit. _“Why_ didn’t she tell me?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Because she’s not an idiot, and she didn’t want you to freak out.”

“Freak out? I wouldn’t---”

“You are freaking the fuck out right now," Jason said, his tone firm. If Damian wanted a fight, he'd give him a fight. He wasn't going to let himself get intimidated by him when a) Jason Todd didn't get intimidated and b) he was obviously hysterical. "Now, you’re going to apologize to the nice lady at the desk, and then you’re going to scrub up and get ready for surgery.”

Damian went ashen. “Surgery?”

“Congrats, champ. You put a baby in her that’s too big to exit the natural way. Apparently, there were complications last time she went into labor, too, so---”

Damian let go of him, running his shaking hands through his hair. He was frustrated and confused, trying hard to put down his fear long enough to think clearly. Poor kid looked like he was going to puke. There were a precious few things that Bat training didn’t prepare a person for, and this was a big one.

“No. No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “She didn’t---she never---”

Jason rubbed the back of Damian’s neck, strong-arming him closer. He wasn’t the best person to comfort his estranged almost-brother, but without Dickiebird in the nest, he was the runner-up. And maybe he wasn’t the best at it, but what the hell. He gave a damn, for better or worse.

“She didn’t tell you she almost died popping out her last baby? Golly gee willikers, I wonder why. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the way you wallow in guilt and stress out about anything you can’t control, just like dear old dad.” Instead of bristling at him for bringing up his father---a subject rarely in good taste---Damian sagged. He let Jason pull him into an awkward sort-of-hug. “She was sparing you an ulcer, sport. Take a deep breath, put your man panties on, and go hold her hand or something. She’s scared. She needs _you_ to be calm. Can you do that?”

Damian took a deep breath, as instructed. “Of course.”

“Good boy,” Jason said, patting his back. “Now, are you ready to go be a hero?”

He nodded shortly. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go have a baby.”  

What would the family do without Jason Todd around?

 

*

 

In typical Steph fashion, hearing Damian freaking out made her shift focus and start worrying about him more than herself. This was a welcome change, because she was honestly pretty scared about what was going on with her body, and worrying about other people was easier for her.

When he sprinted down the hall toward her---Jason power-walking ahead of him, steering innocent civilians away---she all but sagged in relief. He looked manic, hair messed wildly from his cowl---she noted that he hadn't even taken the time to change all the way out of his suit. She reached for Damian, and he quickly went to her side and took her hand.

"Hiya, handsome," she said with a thin smile. "How was work?"

He might as well have not heard her. He immediately launched into the kind of rapid-fire interrogation that was the Wayne equivalent of babbling.

“Why didn’t you tell me? What I was doing wasn’t as important as this. What if I---if you---we _agreed_ on this, Stephanie. We agreed that I would be with you during the delivery.” His breath caught, then quickened as he lapsed into a tense whisper-mumble. _Ana aasif_ \---”  

Stephanie framed his face with both hands, thumbs pressed against his mouth.

“Sweetie. English. English, please. I’m in too much pain to use Google Translate right now.”  

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes averted. “I said that I’m sorry.”

Steph sighed, pulling him over far enough to hug. He had to stoop, but he hugged her back. There were only a handful of things that scared the big bad Son of the Bat, and losing her was high on the list. She knew that, but it always surprised her when she saw that fear in his eyes. He could handle his own death a hundred times over---and _had_ \---but he’d lost too many loved ones to survive losing another. He could manage any level of torture inflicted on him, but he couldn’t handle watching someone he loved in pain and being powerless to help them.  

“Baby’s fine. She’s a fighter---she’s doing better than I am right now.” She laughed, but it came out shaky. “You didn’t miss the main event. How did you know...?”   

“That you were in labor?” Damian smiled, a brief reflexive flash. “ Alfred came and got me. He’s asleep in the car.”

“Sorry to interrupt this touching moment," Jason said, hand raised. "But did you say the _cat_ told you Steph’s water broke? Are you shitting me?”

“Long story,” Damian said dismissively. He gave Jason a very pointed look. “And with him in the car, I don’t have to worry about anyone accosting it.”

“Hey, don’t give me that look. It’s been a long time since I tried to lift tires. Taking the old model for a joyride was more than enough for me for one night.”

Damian opened his mouth for a sharp response, but seemingly thought better of it. Hopefully, he'd accept that taking her to the hospital in the old Batmobile had been the safest choice, and overlook the fact that Jason had sort of stolen his car. It'd probably be contingent on whether or not Jason ended up giving the Batmobile _back_ , she figured.  

“He’s such a good kitty,” Steph puffed, visibly tensing. She squeezed Damian’s hand tightly. “Remind me to give him a salmon treat when we get home. He deserves a salmon treat.”

He bent over her worriedly, stroking back her hair with his free hand. It was so alien to have him be demonstrative and affectionate with an audience watching. He hated PDA, so most people never saw how gentle he was with her. Steph was so, so glad that he was ignoring his usual propriety and touching her. She talked big, but she didn’t want to do this alone. Her emotions and anxiety were whipping in twelve directions at once---she’d been so sure that this birth would be cake in comparison to her first baby, but this had been a blow by blow reenactment of one of the worst days of her life so far. It was a nightmare.

But now that Damian was there, she didn’t feel quite as frantic.

"I wish I could---that there was _more_ that I could---"

"Just hold my hand, remind me to breathe, and tell me that you love me in spite of how hideous this whole event is and what's going on down there," Steph said, forcing a smile for him. "Do us both a favor and don't look."

"I can do all of that," Damian said, nodding. He kissed her knuckles. "This is nothing. You have been through so much worse than this."

She frowned, closed eyelids quivering. "Like with Jones."

Waylon Jones. Killer Croc. The death that he'd saved her from by giving her a massive transfusion of his own blood. The event that had more or less brought them together, really.

"Yes," he said quietly. "You've defied death many times. This is nothing in comparison."

"Says you," she said with a strangled little half-laugh, half-sob. The nurses began wheeling her to the operating room, and Damian took long strides to keep up. He refused to let go of her hand.

"Yes, says me," Damian said, squeezing her fingers.

She pressed a kiss to the back of the hand he had holding hers. She tried to say _I love you_ as they began setting up the privacy tent and preparing for surgery, but it came out as a raggedy little sob.

Damian curled over her. He said it for her.

 

*

 

Jason didn't even ask to be allowed in during the operation. He wasn't family---not technically, not really---and that just happened to be a concept he was very familiar with. He'd done his part, he figured. He'd gotten Steph to the hospital safely, he'd given Damian the kind of pep talk that Dick or Alfred would have, and now it was all in their hands.

It was a funny thing, being present for the birth of the very first bat-baby. Jason stayed in the waiting room, thinking about the enormity of what was going on behind closed doors. He wondered, and not idly, if this darling trainwreck of a relationship would have come to pass had Bruce still been alive. A part of him hoped that it would have, and that Bruce would have had to see what his failed Robins were capable of together, but a more cynical and salty section of his brain said that Bruce would've put an end to it before it'd started.

He didn't think that Bruce would've approved of Damian being Batman, first of all. He didn't think that Bruce would've liked the idea that Damian used the cowl to keep himself controlled, not because he already had won control of his instincts. Bruce had such a rigid idea of what Batman was and what being Batman meant, he made it next to impossible for anyone else to be _that_ Batman. Hell, he would probably have fired Steph for the eightieth time over what she'd let his little baby murderbird do.

It was a chicken and egg problem, and one that Jason couldn't answer for himself---not fully. Nobody understood Bruce's rigidity better than he did, but nobody had seen him laugh as much as he had, either. He went back and forth on it, depending on what his current relationship with the ghost of Bruce Wayne's memory. He'd liked kids. Loved kids. Wasn't great with them, but that was its own issue.

So maybe Bruce would've been happy about becoming a grandfather. Nobody would ever really know what he would've thought about who carried on his family legacy, and how. Jason was definitely going to ask Talia how _she_ felt about being a GILF, next time he talked to her.

The waiting room was fairly empty, as early in the morning as it was. There was one other family in there---a middle-aged man falling asleep in the uncomfortable hospital chair, and his equally tired-looking young daughter. The little girl had an unruly mess of brown curls that her father had tried---and failed---to pull into a braid. She sat on the carpet and played with the dented building blocks the hospital provided as toys, yawning every so often.

Jason flipped through the outdated copies of _Cosmo_ magazine, learned a few things about eyeshadow and what really drives your man crazy in bed, and then lapsed into boredom.

He pulled out his cellphone, scrolled through his contacts, and opened up a new text message to _Princess Prissypants._ He had good news to spread, after all, and what better time to spread it than four in the morning?

He was positive that Tim would want to be informed about the imminent bundle of joy.

Guess what

Who is this? 

Guess

There was a significant pause between sending that text and getting Tim's reply. He could almost imagine how deeply his half-asleep replacement had to be frowning at his phone. Detective skills didn't kick in until Timmy had been awake for a while.

How did you get this number?, the reply text demanded, making Jason grin.

Guess guess guess. Cmon timmers I thought you were the detective

Jason, I swear to God, I don’t care how many numbers you try this from. I will keep blocking you. 

You won’t block me if you want the scoop, Jason typed back. As an afterthought, he punctuated it with a heart.

Jason, it’s five in the morning. What do you want?

Can’t we just chat? Maybe I just wanted to chat. Maybe I’m reaching out to mend the bad blood between us timmy. Why won’t you let my love in

There was no response. Tim must’ve been cranky, because he’d already blocked him. Jason found Steph’s phone in the pocket of her jacket, scrolling through her contacts until he found a likely candidate. Like every other person trained by Bruce, their cell contacts were either memorized numbers or personal codenames. Stephanie had her contacts nicknamed after Disney characters. Damian was Simbaaaaaaaaa (“REMEMBER WHO YOU AAAAARE.”), Dick’s defunct---but still-saved---number was listed as Tigger (“His bottom is made out of springs!”), Jason was Aladdin (“Rifraff. Street rat! I don’t buy that. If only they’d look _closerrrr_. Would they see a poor boy? No sirree.”), Cassandra was Ping (“Did they send me daughters, when I asked for soooons?”), and he had a sneaking suspicion that Snow White was the Robin he was looking for.  

having some quality time with Prince Charming?, he typed, sinking lower in the too-small hospital chair. He stretched out his long legs, invading the Lego kingdom with the toe of his right boot. When the little girl looked up at him curiously, Jason winked. She giggled and began building an elaborate bridge over his ankle.

After a few seconds, the cell buzzed with a new message.

What the HELL are you doing with Steph’s phone? 

Aww, good. He’d guessed the right princess.  

oh you know, just burning time until I become an uncle.

Not five seconds after he sent the text, the phone started ringing. The ringtone pealed a happy wail of _“Everyone else has had more sex than meeee!”_

Sometimes, he had to reflect that he and Stephanie could have been a beautiful match, if only he’d gotten to her after Timmy and before Babybat. TISM was a great touch.

“Wayne Mortuary,” he said cheerfully. “You snuff ‘em, we stuff ‘em. How can I direct your call?”

“She’s in labor?” Tim demanded, in lieu of hello. His voice climbed continually higher with each question. “How is she? Is it going smoothly? She told me that she’d call! I’m supposed to be there! I told her that I’d be there!”

“Calm down. Jesus, now I get why Steffers called me first. Nobody in this family can deal with childbirth. Friggin’ useless, all of you.”

"Jason, _answer me!"_

Poor Timmy. So emotionally constipated.

"There's been some complications," he said, his tone placating. "Namely, Damian put a baby in her that's too big to exit through her ladyparts. Mom's not doing so hot, so they're performing an emergency c-section. Dad was on patrol, but _the cat_ found him and told him. Can you even believe that shit?"

Tim didn't say anything for an overlong moment.

"Are you _high?"_

"I swear to Christ that is exactly what he said. Apparently, the cat is fu---" He glanced at the little girl building the elaborate block bridge over his boot. Bit the inside of his cheek. "---friggin' _Lassie_."

"If you drove Steph to the hospital high, I---"

"Dude! Whatever! Drop it!" Jason said, waving his hand airily. "If you don't believe me, text Damian and ask him. The point is, they just rolled Steph into surgery, and D's with her. It shouldn't be too much longer, if you want to come congratulate her after it's over."

"I'm already on my way."

Jason grinned. "Prince Charming giving you a lift, Princess?"

"Go to hell, Jay," Tim burst out, exasperated. He could hear the rush of wind whistle over the receiver. "At least I have a boyfriend."

"Good on you, sport. Nothing sticks it to the old man like having a whole nest full of queer little Robins," Jason laughed. It was a real laugh, free of his usual self-depreciation or sarcasm. "Not a straight one in the flock."

"We're not talking about this," Tim said, but he sounded almost startled by Jason's laughter. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Bye-bye, Timster," Jason trilled. "See you soon."

But not _very_ soon, since he'd neglected to tell him which hospital they were at.

 

*

 

Damian, be honest with me. Did you really tell Jason that your cat told you that Steph was in labor?

I'm not going to give you crap if you did, because I know what it's like when someone you care about is in labor

I've been in your shoes before.

Your EXACT shoes, actually. 

And sometimes you say things without thinking.

And I know you were patrolling tonight, too, so you're probably overtired.

But you can't have been serious about the cat.

I mean, it's a cat.

You have to be kidding about the cat.

PS, I'm on my way. Tell Steph to sit tight.

"Who the hell is blowing up your phone?" Steph asked irritably, pawing back her bangs. Her hair was sticking to her face and neck in sweat-damp curls.

Damian turned off his phone without answering the long string of texts. He shrugged.

"It's nothing of consequence. Timothy is on his way," he said dryly, deciding that he was going to have quite a talk with Jason by the end of the day.

"Oh, Tim," she said, and laughed breathlessly. "He's being Tim, isn't he?"

"In spades, unfortunately," said Damian, dropping his phone into his pocket. "How are you doing?"

"Me? I'm usually not a big fan of anesthetic, but this spinal-epidural combo is _great._ I can't feel anything, and it's awesome."

"Good," he said, because the doctors were quietly working---if the numbing hadn't been sufficient, she already would have reacted. They hadn't been operating long, but they'd assured him that removing the baby wouldn't take more than fifteen minutes. The smell of blood--- _her_ blood---seared his nose.

Stephanie had calmed down considerably once the painkillers had kicked in, but Damian was nothing but nerves. The reality of it all had sunken in, and he was more than slightly terrified. Then again, he'd spent the last six months in a near-constant state of slight terror; the presence of the baby in Stephanie's mind had acclimated her to the idea long before he'd known about the baby's existence.

Holding her hand tightly, he felt helpless but responsible. Inaction was difficult for him, but the best thing that he could do for her was keep stable and calm.

The tension was cut by the doctor murmuring, "Ah, and here we go." A beat later, a shrill, angry wailing filled the room. "It's a girl, Mr. Wayne." The doctor lifted the bloody, screaming baby so that they could see her; her tiny chest heaved as she cried, and Stephanie squeezed his fingers painfully tight.

The baby's tiny hands were curled into fists, she was smeared with gore, and she was furious with the world at large.

There was no mistaking that she was their child.

"See? That wasn't that bad. That wasn't bad at all," Stephanie huffed, giving him a slightly addled grin.

"I was right. I told you that it would be fine."

"Uh-huh," she mumbled. "D, can you---I can't see from here, but is she---?"

"She's perfect," Damian assured her, torn between the urge to keep holding onto his partner and his desire to thoroughly inspect the shrieking, vaguely human thing that was his daughter.

After a blessedly quick evaluation, the nurse came around the curtain with the squirming, wailing baby.

"Man, does she have a pair of lungs on her or what," Stephanie said, touching her damp, wrinkled face. "Dinah's gonna love you, baby girl."

"She's...she is..." He spread his hand over the curve of her tiny back, covering her. How could she be bigger than most babies? The doctor and nurses kept saying that, but he didn't believe it. She was just so impossibly _small_ , so fragile. He was conflicted between wanting to hold her close and protect her and being too scared to touch her. Surely, babies were supposed to be bigger than that---stronger.

"She's very small," Damian said hoarsely, because he couldn't process even that first thought, that initial impression. He was completely overwhelmed.

"She's ten pounds and change, honey," Steph said. It looked like her exhaustion was starting to catch up with her, finally. Her eyelids were drooping. "As the one who lugged that around for a couple of months solid, I get the final say in this. That's _not small."_

 _"Tt._ I stand by my assessment," he said, and felt a strange jolt when the baby abruptly stopped crying. She stared at him with huge blue eyes, hiccuping.

She reacted to his voice. Knew his voice. Had been listening.

His throat closed up and his chest burned. He stroked between her shoulderblades with two light fingers.

"Hello, little one. You have sharp ears, don't you?"

The newborn blinked at him owlishly, interrupted by regular hiccups. He thought of her earlier case of the hiccups, the vibrating little ripples that'd woken her mother up. When he'd been soothing her to stillness by talking and rubbing Stephanie's side, the thought that he'd be seeing his daughter a few hours later hadn't even crossed his mind.

"Go ahead and hold her, D," Stephanie murmured drowsily. "Say hi to your baby."

Stephanie was pale, her features pinched with nausea. The nurse had warned them that may be a side-effect of the anesthetic, so she probably needed to rest. After they'd sewn up the incision, she'd be able to get some richly deserved sleep. He kissed the crown of her head, combing back her tangled hair, and lifted the baby from her. He tucked her against his chest, cradling her head with the light-fingered care and paranoia he usually reserved for defusing dirty bombs.

Damian had never held a baby before. It could have been considered an achievement, in a weird way, to go twenty-one years without holding a baby. He'd been so universally untrusted with children and fragile things, no one had ever tried to foist their squalling young at him. This had suited him fine, since he hadn't cared to be drooled on---or worse.

But that made the first time he held his daughter all the more intense. He mutely, gingerly stroked his fingertips down her back until she finally stopped hiccuping. She was so small and helpless, put together all wrong to survive. Her head was too big, her neck weak, and she had no coordination or motor skills to speak of. He had to be so gentle with her, so careful.

Just by being his baby, she demanded that he be someone he never would have had the chance to be, otherwise. She didn't need Batman, and she didn't need Damian Wayne, son of the late great Bruce Wayne. She needed her father, and that would allow him to put aside his other obligations. It was almost an epiphany: there had been (and would be) other Batmans, and that version of Damian Wayne was merely a placeholder for his father's memory, but being a father to his daughter was not a role that anyone else could take from him. She was his child, with his blood. She looked like him. He was a part of her, and there was no erasing or getting around that fact.

For the first time in years, Damian was struck with a gnawing, horrible yearning for his family. Missing them came in waves---always when he least expected it---but this time it crested so strongly, it brought tears to his eyes.

He wanted to show Dick, Father, and Alfred this tiny, beautiful mess of a creature he'd helped create. He wanted to show them, because he was proud. He'd done something _good_. Possessiveness and pride and fear swelled in his chest. This wasn't what they'd foreseen for him, nor was it what he'd imagined for his own future---only a few months ago, he'd been certain he'd driven away his partner for good.

But he'd made the choice to live his life, even if that meant not following the mad, blind devotion of his father's ideal. It hadn't been the easy choice, but he'd been willing to sacrifice for it---he'd been willing to give. This was what he'd chosen. Stephanie, the baby---all of it.

"Damian," he heard Stephanie say, her voice reedy and thin from painkillers and tiredness. "Are you okay? Is she okay?"

He'd started to cry. He'd shed very few tears in his life, and he rarely allowed anyone to see it when he did. When he cried, it heralded a crippling emotional breakdown; it was him at his weakest and most shameful.

He'd never cried out of happiness. The concept had been alien to him, since crying was a response to mismanaged pain. And yet, there he was---crying soundlessly over the warm, impossibly tiny child his partner had given him. It was too much.

"Yes," he said, and smiled. "All is well."

Her eyes drifted shut and she heaved a sigh.

"Told you it would be."

For one of the first times in his life, he could say, without question, that he was _happy_.

 

*

 

"Hey, cupcake."

Steph's entire body ached and buzzed, exhaustion and painkillers dulling her response. She stretched, forcing her eyes open. Jason stood beside her bed, smiling apologetically.

"Hi," she mumbled fuzzily, rubbing her eyes. She suffered a brief moment of vertigo when she took a deep breath and it came easier than it had in months---she had to look at her empty stomach to remind herself that no, she wasn't pregnant anymore.

"Sorry to wake you up, but I didn't want to leave without saying bye."

After they'd moved her to post-op recovery, Steph had fallen asleep. When the adrenaline had left her, she'd crashed, hard. Damian was nowhere to be found, which didn't surprise her. He'd insisted that she get some sleep, but he was probably haunting the maternity ward and going in circles without her.

"Thank you," she said around a wide yawn. "For everything tonight."

"Hey, what else is family good for? Anyway, I'm going to go get trashed," Jason said, leaning over to tuck the blanket in around her. "And I'm going to text you. Drunkenly. I get that privilege for putting up with you."

Steph made a mental note to clean out her text message inbox. Jason didn't drunk text---Jason drunk philosophized and drunk essayed. She'd have to free up some cell memory in preparation for the dozens of texts she'd get over the course of the day. She'd gotten everything from Zen koans to 80s pop songs rewritten with vigilantes in mind.

"Get drunk for me, too," she said. "I'm sober until I stop breastfeeding, and who knows how long that'll be."

"Oh, I'm planning on it," he said cheerfully. "After the night I've had, excessive day-drinking is the only answer."

Steph smiled wearily. She reached up, limbs shaky, and mimed grabby hands at him.

"Jay, get your face down here."

She kissed him. It wasn't passionate, but it was sincere. He grinned lopsidedly when she released him.

"You did a good job, Mommabear," he said, giving the top of her head a fond pat. "No spoilers, but you made a pretty goddamn cute baby."

From the doorway, Damian pointedly cleared his throat. She smiled at him---at him, and the pink-swaddled bundle that looked almost lost in his big arms.

"Speaking of goddamn cute babies, there is someone interested in seeing you now that you've both have cleaned up and rested, Stephanie."

Steph tried to say something to that, but couldn't get anything out past the lump in her throat. Jason fiddled with the bed control until he got it to elevate her into a more comfortable position, and Damian very carefully placed her daughter in her arms.

The baby looked much more baby-like now that she'd been cleaned up. She was awake and alert, peering at her with large, milky blue eyes. She'd inherited Damian's skin tone and blue-black hair, his bossy genetics shoving hers aside, but that made Steph tear up, for some reason she couldn't quite pinpoint. The baby was so obviously and unquestionably _theirs_. The actual event of her conception had been ugly, but the product of that ugliness was anything but.

"Hey, you," Steph whispered croakily. Her daughter blinked at the sound of her voice, burbling. "I'm sure you know this already, but I'm your mom. You've gotten pretty familiar with the inside of me, but today's the first day of your life on the outside. Gotta say, I'm pretty happy to see you."

"They've marked 'Baby Wayne' on her identification bracelet, but I was hoping you would have something more permanent for her." Damian shifted his weight uncomfortably. "They seemed baffled that I didn't know what you wanted to name her."

"And let me guess," she said as the newborn curled a tiny fist around her pinkie and guided it to her mouth. "Calling her Baby Wayne makes you and your terminology-issues antsy, so you've been a nervous wreck since I fell asleep."

"There was pacing in front of the maternity ward," Jason told her in a conspiratorial undertone. "I had to make him sit down before he started interrogating the other new dads about whether _they'd_ known what their baby's name was supposed to be."

"You needed to rest," Damian said over Jason, annoyed. "And you _deserved_ to rest."

"I had a couple names picked out," Steph said, stroking her fingertips over the baby's round cheek. She could barely resist the urge to check her thoroughly, counting all of her impossibly small fingers and toes. The idea that she was _hers_ , and she was healthy, and she was beautiful, seemed too good to be true. "But I wanted to see her first. I wanted to make sure her name fit."

"And?" Damian prompted, eyebrows raised.

"And she's Laila," she said, petting her wisps of dark hair. "L-A-I-L-A. Laila Constance Wayne."

"Laila," he repeated. Paused. _"Constance?"_

"After John Constantine," said Stephanie, chin raised. "Dude saved your soul. Least you could do is name your kid after him. Want to fight about it?"

Damian rolled his eyes. "Of course not. Why would I ever question your judgment? How silly of me, worrying over the implications of naming my daughter after a man who curses everything he touches."

"Lemme tell you something, D," she said, kissing the top of Laila's soft dark head. "If there's one thing the Steph Fucks Off to England Adventure taught me, it's that names are powerful. They come with street cred, and can be used to deflect anyone who might be afraid of that name. And on top of that, Constance Aberthine was the best fake name Bruce ever gave me."

"And I gave you the responsibility of choosing her name, so I," he frowned absently. "Suppose I have no right to veto Constance."

"Laila Constance Wayne," Tim echoed from the doorway. He looked like he'd been through equal or greater levels of stress that night---he was still in his sweats and a parka, his hair teased into a messy nest from the wind. "I like it."

The fact that he had made it---even late---warmed Steph's chest.

"We'll make sure to toast her at least once or twice," Jason said, clapping a hand on Tim's shoulder.

Tim regarded him balefully. "We?"

"Yep. You, me, celebratory drinks. Heck, you can bring your alien, too. You're just in time."

"But I just got here! I had to check eight hospitals, because someone didn't tell me where to go and _everyone_ turned off their phones."

"Like I said," Jason said smoothly, smirking. "You're just in time."

Tim sighed. "Don't I even get a say in this?"

"Nope," he said, gesturing at Damian and Steph. "Look at that beautiful little family, Timmy. Just look at them. So full of love---so full of exhaustion. They could use some time alone to unwind, don't you think?"

"Congrats, Steph." A beat. He'd been looking at her and Laila the whole time, as if he was consciously trying to block out the presence of her babydaddy. He flicked him a quick look. "And, ah. You too, Damian. I'll come back during normal visiting hours, okay?"

"Thanks, Tim," Steph said, sparing him a wide smile. He seemed bewildered and overtired and exasperated, but Tim smiled back.

"Don't mention it. I said I'd be here, and so I am." He rubbed the back of his neck, shoulders pulling with a shrug. "However briefly."

"Get some rest, you crazy kids." Jason paused, pointing to Damian. "And _you._ Take care of your lady, or I'm kidnapping her and the kid. First and last warning, champ."

"Duly noted," Damian murmured dryly.

"So long as we're clear."

"We're perfectly clear," Damian assured him, and took Steph's hand.

"Bye, Uncle Tim. Bye, Uncle Jay," Steph said, wiggling her fingers in a tired approximation of a wave. "Thanks for the ride. Return the car before Daddybat loses all of his warm and fuzzy hormones, please. His testosterone isn't going to be this low for very long."

"The car?" Tim repeated---and then, realizing _which_ car, his eyes widened. "You stole _the_ car?"

"Borrowed. I borrowed _the_ car, and I think we'll take her for one last spin around town," he said, winking. "I'll gas it up, too. You're welcome."

"One scratch, Todd," Damian threatened---though, the threat fell a little flat. "And I'll have your head."

"Babybat, you can have my head anytime you want," Jason sang, herding Tim out and shutting the door behind them.

"He's terrible," Damian said, dragging a chair close to the bed.

"But we like terrible," Steph reminded him. She was tempted to tell him that he needed to get some sleep, but she knew better than to suggest it. He wouldn't be letting either her or the newborn out of his reach---much less his sight---for at least the first couple of weeks. This was all way too new and frightening for him. She knew he'd drive her crazy, but she accepted that dealing with that was just a part of being with him.

"So, guess what," Steph said, reaching up and smoothing back his flyaway hair. She didn't feel as self-conscious about how bad she undoubtedly looked, since he was more of a wreck than she'd ever seen him before. His hair was sticking up in ridiculous cowlicks, and he smelled a little ripe from a full night of crimefighting capped off by hours of high stress and anticipation. She would have teased him about it, but he just looked so damn _happy_.

"You know that I detest guessing games, but I'll indulge you this once. What?"

"You're a dad, Little D," she said, patting his stubble-rough cheek. "Can you believe that? Because I can't. I mean, I didn't look at you in the moonbounce ten years ago and think _I am totally going to hit that and have his babies."_

"Maybe _you_ didn't think that, but..." he shrugged, giving her that twitchy little smug smirk of his.

And she really didn't put it past Damian Wayne, age eleven, to decide that he was going to have her eventually.

"You're terrible," she said fondly, the dozing baby nuzzled against the crook of her neck.

"And for whatever reason, you like terrible people," Damian agreed. "So here we are."

"Yep," Steph said, and sighed. She was exhausted, but content. Maybe the names and faces and timing hadn't panned out like she'd expected, but she'd lived to see the day that Stephanie Brown, age fifteen, had dreamed about: she and her Boy Wonder had a baby, and nothing could take that away from her. "This is us. And I don't know about you, but I'm kind of glad to be here."

Damian tucked a long hank of her tangled hair behind her ear.

"I wouldn't want it any other way."


	32. Phosphenes: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place around the same time as the end of WWBGD.

Stephanie had decided to wear a black dress to the Christmas gala, which was rare for her. She'd claimed that she was sick of _always_ wearing red, gold, or white to the winter gala, which he thought was slightly hypocritical, since she _always_ wore some shade of eggplant to the summer gala. In fact, she was somewhat known for her love of the color---she'd been both horrified and delighted when designers started making purple evening gowns with her as inspiration. Stephanie had never considered herself to be very fashionable, so to be the muse for the icons of haute couture made her laugh hysterically and grab a pint of ironic yet celebratory ice cream. 

Her gown was backless, inky hammered satin that hung in graceful long folds over her breasts. She wore dark red lipstick, her boyishly short hair pinned in waves. Her long hair had been a casualty in a recent training exercise with Laila; he was starting to warm to the new look, though he'd been upset at first. The only jewelry she wore were a pair of brilliant diamond drop earrings and her wedding ring. Damian had dressed to match her reserved elegance, a black three-piece suit paired with a claret tie. 

“You look magnificent tonight,” Damian said as he helped her out of the car. He meant it, too. He couldn’t think of a time in recent memory where she’d been more radiant. It never ceased to amaze him that even after years of partnership, he was sometimes still struck by her. She had been with him for nine years, and yet she still could still make him forget to breathe. The champagne he’d had while making his pre-gala social rounds had loosened him up, admittedly, but he had taken Stephanie’s suggestion to heart. Damian hadn’t been sure if he’d be able to stomach making an appearance---his best friend’s chronic illness had reduced him to a shell of his former self, and he was having a hard time buying into the holiday cheer as a result. Stephanie had suggested that he put it all out of his mind, because he was treating Colin as though he were already dead. Tonight was a night to celebrate bright things, not nurse his internal aches and the inescapable losses that hovered above them. Laila was safe with Uncles One and Two, and Colin would be upset with him if he didn’t enjoy Christmas. 

So, he was trying. God, he was trying. 

“Well, I know one billionaire philanthropist who is hoping to get laid,” Stephanie whispered. Her earrings caught the light when she turned to him, dazzlingly bright. 

“Can’t I compliment you without it automatically meaning I want to bed you?” Damian drawled, feigning complete indifference. 

“Are you denying that you do? Because you’re going to have a very disappointed trophy wife if we’re not having relations tonight, Mr. Wayne,” she told him, her tone turning playful. She smoothed the line of buttons down his waistcoat, winking. “C’mere. Let’s give ‘em a photo op.” 

He kissed her obligingly, the camera flashes from the paparazzi lighting up his closed eyelids. She was still beaming when he opened his eyes again.  

“I thought that you didn’t like being the center of attention at these media events.” 

“Well, if I’m looking _magnificent_ tonight, I might as well ham it up a little.” 

“Then I’ll do my best to be appropriate arm candy,” Damian said loftily, sweeping a practiced---and completely exaggerated---bow. That triggered another flutter of camera flashes. “May I escort you inside?” 

“I know that you’re trying to be a bitch, but it’s backfiring,” Stephanie said, taking his hand. “I happen to like it when you pretend to be prince charming.”

“You wound me. I was merely indulging my wife’s Disney fetish.”  

She laughed until she had to dab at her mascara with her fingertips to keep it from running. 

“You’re terrible,” she accused, allowing him to pull out her chair for her like a true prince.

“And yet, you’re still married to me,” Damian said, unable to keep the faint warmth of pride out of his voice. “Five years ago today, I accepted your proposal.” 

“I can’t believe it’s been five years since I proposed to you,” she said, her leg brushing his beneath the table. “Can you believe that it’s been that long?” 

“No. If I’d known you had any interest in marriage, I would have asked for your hand years before that.” 

“Really? Steph asked, smiling. “I thought that you saw the whole thing as a farce.” 

“I’d wanted to do things right. Properly,” Damian said, taking the refill of champagne from the very attentive waiter. “But I knew how you saw your parents’ nightmare of a marriage, and my parents’ relationship had been little more than a series of infrequent dalliances.” 

She hummed, nodding absently. Stephanie traced the rim of her crystal wine glass with her callused fingertip. 

“But you really wanted to marry me for that long?” 

“How do you think I managed to produce an engagement ring so quickly?” 

“I thought that you’d wised up to the fact that you couldn’t afford to let a hot piece like me slip away,” she laughed. When he kept stewing in his embarrassed guilt, she gasped in surprise and kicked his calf under the table. Damn, but her heels were sharp. “No way! You _already had the ring?”_

“No,” he said, sounding sulkier than he liked.  

“You did!” Stephanie insisted. “You’re trying to lie, and you’re a terrible liar. You had a ring before I ever proposed, you secretly mushy son of a bitch.” 

“Fine,” he said, raising his flute of champagne in treaty. “Fine. I’d had it for about a year at that point. But with...the complications of our relationship at the time, I felt that proposing marriage would be seen as an attempt to...bind you to me. I didn’t want you to think that, especially with what you already felt about the duplicity of controlling husbands.” He paused, setting down his glass. “And then you fell pregnant, and I didn’t want you to assume that I was only suggesting it to mitigate the social stigma of bearing a child out of wedlock, and...and I wanted to do things properly.”

She smiled at him, her chin on her hand. She had as many smiles as he had frowns, an entire silent language spoken between her lips and eyes. This smile was a tender one, a sweet-fond-proud one. It was the smile that she saved almost exclusively for him, and for their daughter. She stroked his leg with her foot---the sharp angles of her heels absent. She’d taken her shoes off underneath the table, and her toes were crawling up past his knee.  

“Because it wasn’t about legal crap or social faux pas,” Stephanie said knowingly. “You didn’t like calling me your girlfriend, so you wanted something more respectful. You big dork, you.” 

“Something more appropriate for a woman your age,” Damian clarified, drinking his champagne. The arch of her bare foot pressed between his thighs, and he almost choked on his bubbly. “Don’t nitpick or embroider my intentions, you twice-damned _harlot.”_

“Well, I _never,”_ a jewel-encrusted matron to his left huffed indignantly. He’d momentarily forgotten that their conversation carried to their immediate vicinity, and that not everyone understood that twice-damned harlot was a term of endearment. Damian cleared his throat and resettled himself as his partner stroked him beneath the table.  

“By which I mean,” he said quickly, hoping to salvage what little respect the dowager may have had for him. The firm pressure against his crotch made it difficult to think. “My intention was to...honor a woman who already shared so much of my life.” The wrinkled woman continued to give him a sour look of deep disapproval. Stephanie bit her knuckle to keep from laughing. “And that I...love you,” Damian went on, scraping for what a man in his position was supposed to say. “Darling?” 

And his flustered arousal and discomfort must have been obvious, despite his best efforts, because Stephanie burst out laughing. Heads swiveled toward them, but he stopped paying attention to them. 

“C’mon, slick,” Stephanie said, reaching across the table and patting his hand. “Let’s take a walk. I think you need some fresh air.”     

Damian cleared his throat again, suddenly quite glad that he tended to be a slower riser when he’d been drinking. He pushed back his chair, standing. Stephanie stood as well, the picture of innocence as she linked her arm with his. 

“You’re terrible,” he accused under his breath. 

“And yet, you’re still married to me,” she chirped, leaning into him. The black satin of her dress slithered against his hand, the exact temperature of the skin beneath it. Damian bit the inside of his cheek, hard. 

“For that, and many other reasons,” Damian agreed, escorting her out the door. 

It’d been an oddly mild winter thus far, so Gotham didn’t have its usual white Christmas. The drizzle coming down outside was frigid and miserable. Damian shrugged off his jacket, draping it over Stephanie’s bare shoulders. If he asked her if she was cold, she’d tell him no, through chattering teeth. He’d learned to not ask.

“You had your doubts about marriage,” he said, his breath ghostly on the night air. “And I had mine. But what do you think of it now?”

Stephanie shrugged, her thin shoulders lost in his too-big jacket. 

“It’s not bad.” 

Damian froze, staring at her. “That’s _it?”_

“What? It’s had its ups and its downs.” Her pretty, wine-red lips pulled into a frown. “You look like I ran over your puppy, D. Why does that bother you?” 

“For me, it has...it’s been much more than just ‘not bad’,” Damian hedged, embarrassed. 

“You’re going to make me get mushy in public, Mr. Wayne,” she said, her smile small, private, and just a bit wobbly. 

“I’ll excuse your gross excess of emotion this once, Mrs. Wayne. I expected it. I’d like to believe that I have a good read of you by now---I _have_ known you for fifteen years.” 

“Fifteen years. God. You were so tiny back then.” She turned her face up to really look at him, comparing him to the little boy that lived only in her memories. “I really should’ve proposed to you in a moonbounce, just for the nostalgia factor.” 

“Well, if we ever decide to renew our vows...” Damian said, gesticulating vaguely. Her eyes widened.

“Did you really just suggest we renew our vows in a bouncy castle?” 

“Maybe,” he said, looking at her sidelong. 

Her heels gave her a few extra inches of height, so she was able to pull him down for a thorough kiss. Her aggressiveness was something that’d endeared him to her from the very start. 

“I always knew that there was hope for you.” Stephanie pulled back, luminous in her amusement. “Man, I forgot how good this shade of red looks on you. I think you wear it better than I do.” 

“You were joking, weren’t you?” Damian asked, rubbing away the lipstick smudge she’d left on his mouth. “Earlier. About this being ‘not bad’.” 

“Lying through my teeth,” she agreed. “I was serious about the ups and downs. Sometimes, I want to put your head through a wall---I don’t always like you, but we’ve managed to make it five years without falling out of love at the same time. I can’t help but love that I married a man who wants to renew our vows in a moonbounce. I’ve done a lot of team-ups in my time, but...but I consider myself a lucky lady that this is the one that managed to stick.” Stephanie smoothed his tie down with her fingertips. “Hey. What say you and me ditch this snorefest and take advantage of having babysitters for the night?” 

“We didn’t plan to...we don’t have rubbers,” Damian said, taking quick mental stock. Judging by her heavy flirtation, she had only one activity in mind when she suggested ditching the rest of the gala. Even though they were Batwoman and Batman, their hectic schedule had left them less than well-prepared. “And you’re on your placebo week. I suppose that we could stop off at the store, but...” 

“The sugar pills are just fillers, yeah, but I’m still protected by the previous three weeks of hormones,” she pointed out. It was an argument that they’d had before. Sometimes, she argued for going without, sometimes, against it. They took turns being the needy one and the voice of reason. Damian really hated when he had to be the reasonable one, because it was so rare that it was necessary. When Stephanie wanted to risk it, it was difficult not to just agree with her. But rationality had a way of winning out, since Damian was analytical by nature, and he knew exactly how much unexpected pregnancies rocked the metaphorical boat. 

“You just finished a round of antibiotics. If I’m not mistaken, you had mid-cycle spotting. Need I remind you what happened the last time we threw caution to the wind under those conditions?” 

“Last time, I got knocked up,” Steph said, rolling her eyes. “Laila Constance Wayne, brought to you by drug interaction and poor decisions that we’re never going to tell her about, because baby girl does not need an ‘I was an accident’ complex. PS, you know that it weirds me out when you keep track of my cycles.” 

He gave her an appropriately flat look. How did she expect him to do his part if he _didn’t_ know where she was at in her cycle? The woman was impossible, sometimes. She couldn’t fault him for wanting to be more involved in their reproductive choices than just wearing condoms. 

He was Batman, and Batman was a creature of preparedness. Knowing all of the important things that others found uncomfortable was in the job description. 

“The chances that the antibiotics have rendered your birth control ineffective are high,” Damian said, very seriously. “You might...” 

He trailed off with a sigh. Stephanie reached up, tugging on his ear until he leaned over far enough for her to kiss. 

“I might get pregnant. I know. But that’s what I’m saying, D. What if we just...went without? And let whatever happens, happen?” 

Oh. So _that_ was what she was trying to suggest. They’d agreed that she’d be the one to decide if and when they tried again, and...apparently, this was how she’d chosen to tell him that she was ready. 

“...are you sure? Another pregnancy will sideline you for a year or more. You know that.” 

“I do,” Steph agreed. “But I also know that I’m not getting any younger, and you really don’t want Laila to be an only child. And neither do I, honestly. She doesn’t need the whole ‘last of the endangered Waynes’ pressure on her. I’ve seen that complex in action, and it isn’t pretty.” 

Damian smiled slightly, stroking his knuckles over her flat belly. Another pregnancy, and another child. This time, he would be there for the whole process, and not just the frantic second half. He’d know what to expect. He’d be able to redeem the mistakes he’d made when she carried Laila. 

And the timing did feel appropriate, in a strange way. Colin’s health was on a sharp decline---he didn’t have much time left. Damian would like to be able to have his best friend present for the birth of his second godchild. With luck, Colin could make it another forty weeks. 

“Give me a minute to find Timothy. I’m supposed to give a speech, but I’ll let him know that I’m delegating it to him.” 

“You are pretty much the worst brother.”

“I’ve done far more to him over far less,” he said, completely deadpan. “And I can’t be the worst brother, because Todd has that title by default.” 

Stephanie laughed. She gave him another quick kiss. “Give Timmy my best. I’ll warm up the car, and we’ll see where that takes us.”   

 

*

 

Damian was blearily aware of himself as he slowly came to the next morning: his body was very warm and comfortable, but his face was cold and slightly damp. Reflexively, he pulled the covers up over his head. The movement registered all over, a strange ripple as the bed beneath him moved. He froze, tensing up like a startled cat, and jerked his head out from under the covers. 

He was outside. The Wayne property was eerily silent, fog folding it into a moist, dense cloud. Damian was outside, and he was naked, and he was curled up in a wad of blankets in the middle of a moonbounce. Stephanie was buried in the blankets with him, her short hair curling from the moisture in the air. They'd had the sense to stretch a tarp over the top to shield them from the rain, but it was still clammy and cold outside of the blanket nest. 

Instead of enjoying a richly appointed hotel suite, they'd decided to go home after escaping the gala. The rest of their extended pseudo-family would be coming to spend Christmas at Wayne manor, so they hadn't wanted to stray far. After a few glasses of champagne, the bouncy castle had seemed like a perfectly good alternative. 

Damian stretched, his spine giving a satisfying pop. The inflatable eddied with every movement, so it wasn't surprising that his partner started stirring, too. 

“Mornin’,” she mumbled, slightly hoarse. She wriggled closer to him, burying her pinkened nose under the covers. 

“Good morning,” he mumbled amicably in return. “How do you feel?” 

“Tired. Sore. A little hung over.” Stephanie rubbed her eyes with one hand, rearranging her leftover mascara and liner. “I’m surprised you can move. When a girl asks you to knock her up, you sure do give it your all.” 

“You should expect that by now,” Damian said, not caring if he sounded overly pleased with himself---he _was._

“Perfect genetics, I know, I know,” she said, hooking her legs over his beneath the blankets. 

“I might even ha---” The obnoxious buzzing of his cellphone interrupted him. Damian growled low in his chest, groping around until he found it. “Yes?” 

“Damian?” Dick Grayson asked, in his best Worried Brother voice. “Where are you?” 

Damian’s eyes wandered over the netting between the inflated pillar corners. 

“I’d rather not say.” 

“Well...” Dick sounded unsure, but he knew better than to press him. “Tim and Conner are at the house already, which means that Laila’s fine---Rosie and Caddoc are keeping her plenty busy. But Tim and Jay are trying to stake territory in the kitchen, and it’s already getting ugly. It’s a turf war over who gets to use the oven first, and I’m not sure how long I can hold out on my own. They both are accusing me of playing favorites, so I need Steph to come calm the flock ASAP. Seriously, where are you guys?” 

Stephanie grabbed the phone, rolling away from him. “Moonbounce. I’ll be in as soon as we find D’s pants. Merry Christmas, and you owe me twenty bucks.” 

She hung up, wrapping the loose blankets around herself and curling into his side. She dropped the cell on his stomach and yawned.

“He bet that I wouldn’t sleep with you in the bouncy castle?” 

“Yeah. Ages ago. He should know by now that you’d sleep with me just about anywhere,” she said, highly self-satisfied. 

“You make me sound desperate,” Damian groused, torn between amusement and annoyance. 

“I make you sound enthusiastic.” Stephanie licked her thumb, scrubbing the corner of his mouth. “The lipstick smeared all over your face is what makes you look desperate. Now, find your pants before the kids find us.”

They managed to fish their clothes out of the blankets---blankets stolen from inside the manor, the handiwork of tipsiness and real-world applications of ninja training---and redress. Stephanie didn’t bother with putting her nylons and heels back on. She just hopped through the wet, muddy grass barefoot, her long dress hiked up past her knees. She wiped her muddy toes on the back doormat and walked inside through the kitchen entrance, utterly shameless. She beamed at the family members gathered around the island in the kitchen---Tim and Conner goggled at them, stunned.

“Morning!” Stephanie said cheerfully, her leftover eyeshadow giving her raccoon-dark eyes. She padded to the basket of muffins on the counter, leaving slightly muddy footprints in her wake. Damian just sighed. “Are Jay and Dick with the kidlets?”   

“Yes, but that’s not important right now. Did you really sleep _outside?”_ Tim demanded, sounding absolutely scandalized. 

“No,” Damian said, carefully folding over his rumpled suit jacket over the back of a chair. “We slept in the bouncy castle.” 

“You did what?” 

“Slept in the bouncy castle. It’s like aerial sex for people who don’t have partners capable of flight.” Stephanie made an almost borderline pornographic noise as she took a bite out of the muffin. “Whoever made these, come here and kiss me right now.” 

Quicker than his eye could track, Conner hovered over and gave her an exaggerated smack on the cheek. 

“Ma Kent’s secret recipe. And you’re right, y’know. That’s probably as close as you can get to how awesome aerial sex is. Notice that I’m not asking how you know how awesome it is to begin with.”

“A wise decision,” Steph smiled, patting his shoulder. “Because I don’t think you want to hear about that torrid summer of discovery. I’m going to hop in the shower, and then I’ll make Christmas waffles with the munchkins while you all interrogate Damian about how we ended up in the moonbounce.” She took another large bite of the muffin. “Merry Christmas, all.”

Stephanie waltzed out of the kitchen, still eating her muffin. Conner gave his partner a very curious look. 

“Her ‘torrid summer of discovery’?” Conner echoed, an eyebrow arched. 

“Don’t look at me,” Tim spluttered, redfaced. “I have no idea what she’s talking about.” 

Damian smoothed back his flyaway hair, reaching for a mug out of the cupboard. 

“Kara,” he said briskly, pouring himself a cup of exceedingly strong coffee. “After her first year of college. Now, I’m _very_ hung over, and I need coffee before we’re forced to eat whatever Stephanie thinks ‘Christmas waffles’ are. I’m not going to tell you how we ended up in the moonbounce, so don’t even bother asking.”

Damian leaned against the counter, not even caring that his hair was a mess, his waistcoat was buttoned up incorrectly, he had a splitting headache, and Conner looked like he wasn’t sure if he should be aroused or not. He took a deep breath, inhaling the rich smell of hot coffee before he took a drink. 

Honestly, he wasn’t completely sure how they’d ended up in the moonbounce, but he wasn’t about to admit that. He’d let them chalk it up to being a Christmas miracle. 

And in a way, it kind of was. 

 

*

 

They weren’t in the habit of doing anything for Valentine’s Day, since going out to do things meant garnering the attention of the ever-vigilant paparazzi. The Wayne family was a media oddity, since they didn’t mix with Gotham very much during daylight hours. They’d admitted Laila to a kindergarten under Stephanie’s maiden name, and she’d still been kidnapped during her first month there. They had much more to protect than just their privacy, so they hung back out of the limelight. Getting dogged by the gossip columnists whenever they tried to enjoy a romantic dinner ruined the mood. It made things feel like every other forced appearance that they made together, and neither wanted to cross the streams between their actual private life and their projected private life. 

So, even though it was Valentine’s Day, Dick and Damian had spent the night patrolling. Stephanie _had_ been slotted to go out as his partner---they took turns, switching between themselves so that no one was ever without backup, and Laila was never left alone---but she’d asked Dick to take her place for the night. She’d begged off on account of feeling under the weather, and Damian hadn’t argued it. She only benched herself when she was feeling truly sick, so he’d just nodded, told her to rest, and hadn’t given it another thought. 

He’d expected her to be in bed by the time they got home, but their bed was still made. It hadn’t been slept in at all. Worry plucked at Damian, but he tried to soothe his kneejerk paranoia. Detective that he was, he quietly searched the dark halls. Laila was in her room, sound asleep and bathed in the glow of her nightlight---a light that she didn’t need to sleep, but that she’d insisted upon after finding out that Rosie slept with one. Stephanie wasn’t in the cave, and she wasn’t in the kitchen, and she wasn’t in Laila’s room, and Damian was just about to start panicking in earnest when he realized that the television was on in the living room. 

Damian found his partner on the couch, moodily eating Oreos by the light of muted infomercials. This was usually an activity she enjoyed, so the annoyed look on her face confused him. He hung in the doorway for a few moments, trying to piece together what could be wrong. Stephanie wasn’t the type to be passive-aggressive when she was upset about something, especially if _he_ was the cause, but something in her body language just seemed off to him. This had all the hallmarks of stress eating, but she rarely went for the Oreos when she was looking for comfort food. Usually, she went straight for the carbs---mashed potatoes and waffles, not sweets. The only time she binged on Oreos was when she... 

He blinked rapidly, the realization dawning. He leaned over the back of the couch, looking at her quizzically. 

“You’re pregnant,” he said. Not a question, just stating fact. 

“Yup,” Stephanie said, fishing another Oreo out of the package. “Officially in the family way. Congrats, Detective. We’re too good at this babymaking thing. Thank God for birth control, because otherwise I’d be popping out Wayne babies constantly.” 

Damian sat down next to her, dazed. It was taking a while for the reality of the situation to sink in. 

“So. We’re going to have another child.” 

“Bingo,” Stephanie said. “I’m eating until I stop having labor flashbacks. Want to join me?” 

He kissed her, framing her face with his hands. She was cookie-sweet. He couldn’t keep the grin from spreading across his face. He’d suspected, of course, but he had chalked it up to wishful thinking and his imagination. The odds of conception had been low, and yet...here she was, bracing herself for the coming months with grim determination and Oreos. 

“Truly, we are exceptionally compatible in every way.” 

“Too compatible,” Steph said, shaking her head. “Most people have to try to get pregnant. All we do is stop guarding my uterus like Fort Knox and _boom._ Baby.” 

Snagging an Oreo, Damian smothered his grin with a bite of cookie. 

“You had better wipe that smug smirk off your face right this instant, mister.” 

“Is it wrong to be proud of my superior virility? I don’t think it is.” 

“I’m blaming the bouncy castle,” Stephanie grumbled darkly, stacking Oreos to obscene heights. 

“I don’t see why you’re so upset. It was your suggestion in the first place, not mine,” Damian pointed out, licking sugary filling from his fingertips. “You should be happy that we conceived easily, without complications.” 

“See, that’s the difference right there. I want another baby, but I hate being pregnant. I somehow managed to forget exactly how _much_ I hate being pregnant,” she said, morosely dunking her cookie in her glass of milk. “I must’ve blocked it out for my own sanity or something.”

Damian watched her eat, humming thoughtfully. 

“Tell me.” 

“Whuh?” she mumbled through a mouthful of soggy cookie.

“Tell me how much you hate being pregnant,” he said, gesturing at her stomach. “If you expect me to understand how harrowing this experience is when you aren’t enormous and going through labor complications, you’re going to have to explain.” 

“Oh my god, tell me you did not use the word _enormous_ to describe me when I was pregnant with Laila,” she said, sounding absolutely betrayed. 

Damian swiftly backpedaled. While common sense and rationality said that yes, his partner _had_ been enormous in the weeks before the birth, years of dealing with Stephanie had programmed him to know that if he wanted to avoid a fight, he had to roll over and bare his belly whenever her voice hit that key. That tone meant that she was faintly hysterical, and she wanted him to pad the truth a little. And for her, he did. 

“All I meant by that is that it’s easier for me to empathize with you when I can see that a large part of the burden you’re carrying is a physical one. I understand muscle weakness, limitations, and exhaustion. But you’re only---what, seven weeks? You have yet to gain any of that cumbersome weight.” 

She didn’t look happy about that answer, but she did seem a little less interested in parting him from his testicles. He was willing to call that a victory. 

“I just started getting morning sickness this week. You missed out on almost all of that with Laila. If me puking grosses you out, you’re going to have to suck it up, because there’s going to be lots of that. And yeah, I’m only seven weeks, but have you looked at me lately?” Stephanie asked, hiking up her baggy shirt. 

Damian’s breath caught in his throat. No, he hadn’t been paying overly close attention to her body in the last few weeks, but that was understandable. Colin had taken a turn for the worse in January, and Damian had been rearranging his life in an effort to spend as much time as possible with his friend. Stephanie had been extremely supportive, shouldering the brunt of the work and appearances necessary to power the Wayne PR machine. They hadn’t seen much of each other, but that was just something that they’d silently accepted and dealt with. 

So, he was honestly shocked by how round Stephanie was already. His memories of the first few weeks after his deal had been broken were hazy, but he would have sworn that she hadn’t been that big when she’d told him that she was carrying. She’d been thirteen weeks when she’d broken the news then, too. 

“Oh,” he said, rather dumbly. “...are you _positive_ you’re only seven weeks gone?” 

“I know, right? But I had my period before Christmas. I’m almost one hundred percent sure that it had to have been our little yuletide indiscretion that successfully stuffed my stocking.”

“I’m going to pretend that you did not just make that comparison.” 

“Why? You certainly banged me beside the fireplace, with care.” She tugged her shirt back down with a sigh. “And I already have a round little belly that shakes when I laugh like a bowl full of jelly, so I can make _all_ of the off-color, off-season jokes that I want.”

Arguing with her meant the high possibility of more holiday puns. Damian wasn’t sure how many more he could endure, so he accepted that loss and moved on. 

“How long have you known?” 

“A couple hours,” she said, licking the middle out of an Oreo. “I’ve had my suspicions for a week or two, but I thought it was all in my head. My suit’s gotten snug, though, and that’s a dead giveaway.” 

“Speaking of Batwoman, you’re off of patrol,” Damian said. That was not something that was up for negotiation. It would be weeks before the baby’s size interfered with her mobility, but any number of strikes or falls could cause her to miscarry. He would not accept that as a possibility. “Effective immediately.”  

“Figured,” she said, shrugging. Her row of cookies demolished, she pushed the package away and rubbed her stomach. “I’ll kiss my cape goodbye and put it into storage. Are you going to have Dick partner up with you for a while, or are you going to call Cass?”

“Mm, I believe that Nightwing and I will be able to cover Gotham ourselves. Assuming that he has no previous commitments.” 

“Want me to ask?” Not even giving him a half breath to answer, she said, “Okay, I’ll ask.” 

Damian put his hands over his ears just as she yelled, _“DIIIIIIIIICK!”_ at the top of her lungs. 

From a far corner of the manor, his equally ill-mannered brother bellowed, _“WHAAAAT?”_

_“CAN YOU TAKE MY PATROL TONIGHT?”_ Stephanie shouted, grinning. It never failed to amaze him how loud she could be when she put her mind to it. 

_“SURE!”_

_“CAN YOU TAKE MY PATROL TOMORROW NIGHT?”_

_“YEAH!”_ Dick yelled back, sounding a little confused---but no less willing to help out.

 _“CAN YOU TAKE MY PATROL FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR?”_

There was a long moment of silence. Then, Damian heard the screech of bare feet on hardwood above them. Judging by the sounds, Dick ran down the hall, skidded halfway down the stairs, jumped or grappled the rest of the way to the first floor, and then burst into the living room---literally throwing open the doors with both arms. 

Dick maintained that he wasn’t overly dramatic, but Damian didn’t think that he was capable of looking at his own actions objectively. Dick was a goddamn diva, as Jason was so fond of saying. 

“Holy shit,” Dick said, grinning like an idiot. “You’re pregnant. Are you pregnant? I really hope that you mean that you’re pregnant, because this will be incredibly awkward if you’re not.” 

“One for the swear jar, Uncle Dick,” Stephanie laughed, shaking her head. “And I thought that we all agreed that we’re going to set a good example for Laila and use walking, not flips, to get from point A to point B.” 

“We also all agreed to set a good example for Laila by using our inside voices to communicate, so neither of you are allowed to set examples. And yes, she is,” Damian said, since she hadn’t answered the question. And because he really, really wanted to tell his brother himself. “Roughly two months gone.” 

Dick dove over the back of the couch, worming between them. He slung an arm around both of them, squeezing them close and kissing the tops of their heads. 

“Congratulations, you two.” 

“Please do me a biiiiig favor and don’t let Tim know that we told you before him,” Stephanie said with a nervous smile. “He’ll be upset if he’s the last one to know again.” 

“But Todd doesn’t---” Realization dawning, Damian shot her a severe look. “Tell me that you didn’t tell Todd before you told me. That you did not tell the black sheep before you informed your partner, who fathered the child in the first place. _Again.”_

“Who do you think picked up a pregnancy test for me?” Stephanie said, rubbing her forehead. “You two were on patrol. I was having a meltdown, because I couldn’t get my suit zipped up past my bellybutton, and the Communists haven’t visited my funhouse for weeks. High society wildcard Stephanie Wayne couldn’t get caught buying a pregnancy test by herself at three in the morning! He did me a favor, so he got to be the first to know. You boys are ridiculous when it comes to babies. Seriously.” 

“And Jason is Jason,” Dick agreed, heaving a theatrical sigh.   
  

 

*

 

Jason was the guy people called when they didn’t know who else to call. Everyone who knew him well knew that about him. If he thought enough of someone to give them his number, it was just implied that he would answer whenever they called him. He was fiercely loyal, in his own way. Almost everyone rang in for help at least once---even the replacement, who had seemed just beside himself over having to ask for his help. But Jason still answered, no questions asked. 

Some allies called often---he had a feeling that he was high on Steph's phone tree, even if she never said as much. Some only called very, very rarely, and seeing their number appear on the caller ID came like a sock to the gut. 

Jason couldn't actually remember the last time Talia al Ghul had called him. It'd been at least a decade, which was why Jason immediately answered, even though he was right in the middle of tucking Rosie into bed. His daughter was asleep, so he kept his voice low. 

"Yeah?"

"Father is after my son. I need you to take him away and protect him, Jason. I cannot trust anyone else with this." 

Talia wasn't one for backstory or niceties. She got right down to the point. Jason frowned deeply, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder as he slid the big picture book out of Rosie's slack fingers. She always insisted on turning the pages during her bedtime story, even though that meant falling asleep clutching the book. 

"Damian's a big boy. Pretty sure he can hold his own against his granddad." 

"No," Talia said sharply. "Not Damian. Gideon. Father means to use him as a vessel. I've tried to spare him, but I---time has run out. I can no longer shield him. I know that he will be safe with you." 

"Are you fucking---" 

“You _owe_ me this much," she said, and there was a tremor of a threat in her voice. "And he is too important to be sacrificed in this way. He is Bruce’s son---not his firstborn, no, but his son nonetheless. Of anyone, I would think that _you_ would be sympathetic to the plight of the discarded second son."

She wanted him to take Bruce’s other son. His flesh and fucking blood.

Jason lowered his voice into a slightly more private hiss. _“What the hell do you know about how I feel?"_

“I know that you have a child of your own, my dear one,” Talia said softly, her voice calm and remote. “Do this for me for no reason other than the fact that you would want me to help you if it were your daughter in danger.” 

Jason lightly passed a hand over Rosie’s messy ringlets. Her hair was burnished gold in the warm glow of her Beauty and the Beast nightlight---he’d always thought his kid was gorgeous, but when she was asleep she really did look like a doll. Like most precious things, his daughter was impossibly fragile. Angling the phone away, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, then tucked the covers in around her. He straightened, quietly shutting the bedroom door behind him. 

“I don’t have much time. This call is scrambled, but I only have twenty-eight more---”

"I'll take him. For now. But I'm not changing any diapers." Jason scrubbed his hands over his eyes, sighing. “I’ll be on my way within the hour. This evens us up, Talia.” 

“Yes,” she said, and there was a weird strain in her voice that tugged at the fine hairs on the back of his neck, making them rise. “All debts between us have been settled. You owe me nothing. Thank you, Jason.” 

They were even, and that was the end of it. When she hung up, the nettling paranoia that those would be Talia’s last words to him made his skin crawl. Jason poured himself two fingers of bourbon, drinking it to dull his nerves while he packed a dufflebag. He was about halfway finished with it by the time he was ready to go, so he sat down on the end of his bed and hit number one on his cell’s speed dial. 

“Hey, Dickiebird,” he said, when he picked up. “S'me.” 

“Jay?” Dick asked, a whistle of wind singing in the background. He was out on patrol, then. Nightwing was good about keeping to an active patrol schedule. He’d gotten an extra five years of youth, so he seemed intent to make up for it by being a vigilante until they had to prop him up with a cane. “What’s up?”  

“A thing came up. I’ve got to take care of it, and I’ve got to do it tonight---and before you ask, it’s a rescue mission, not a hit. I’ve got Rosie, and she’s already in bed. I don’t want to have to get her up and pack her back to her moms’.” And he knew that he wouldn’t be gone long. He never wanted to give Harley the impression that he didn’t want to spend time with Rosie, so he hated to take her back early. “Think you could cut out early and watch her for the night?” 

The high, whining whistle in the background meant that Dick was freefalling. Nobody was as comfortable flying as Dick was. Not even people who could _really_ fly. 

“Yeah, no problem. I can be at your place in fifteen. You’ll owe me one.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason said, taking a burning gulp of his whiskey. “I can pay in favors, cash, or blowjobs. Your call.” 

“We’ll figure it out when I get there,” Dick decided, his tone impish. 

“I’ll warm up my jaw while I wait,” he said, kicking back the rest of the whiskey and wrinkling his nose. “Thanks.”

Fuck owing people things. This happened to him every damn _time_. 

Jason was the one people called when they didn't know who else to call, because Jason never said no. Even when he really, really wanted to say no.


End file.
